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You don’t know how much pleasure you gave me by suddenly appearing at the station that morning. It just warmed my heart to see you, and to feel that you’d taken all that trouble to tell me goodbye. All my flowers kept for days and days in my palatial stateroom on the Berengaria4. I had a dreamy dreamy sort of crossing on a soft summer sea, my days much enlivened by the companionship of Frank Swinnerton5, who was my travel-mate. Such a warm, human fellow!
Your book6 reached me promptly, the first night, and I was so grateful to have it. I liked best the study7 of your great grandmother8 and the one9 about the French socialist, M. Brodard10. That one bit deep into me; it’s the bitterest sort of suffering in the world. The only thing I don’t like about the book is the title; I hate both words of it. The things are none of them “raw”, and your grandmother is not material, she’s a portrait. I’ll bet it was your publisher’s title! I’d like a whole book about Almera Canfield.
I’ve been in bed ever since I got home–partly cold and a bad back, and partly because it was the only way to shut out friends, agents, reporters, even the Knopfs11, and be absolutely alone to play with an idea or two. I expect to get to work next week.
A splendid winter to you dear Dorothy, and happiness to all within your house. I wish we could have had another morning in the park–but we did have one, and even one thing is hard to get in this chancey world.
Very lovinglyWillaWhy does your lovely white and blonde cat make one
think of Isolde12? It seems far far-fetched, yet when I think of your
household I see an Isolde-cat, and a Tom cat at that: He’s very rich looking.