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Your goodness to mother3 and to Margie4 fills my heart to the brim. All that you did
for Margie is a hundred times more precious to me than if you had done it for me
myself. I loved Margie with a tenderness that one can only feel for children and for
people who are a little different from others—people who never grow up in mind. She
was one of the deepest things in my life; more real to me, more dear to me than the
whole world full of people I live among. There was little one could do for her but
love her, and God knows I did that. One of the deepest pleasures of going home was
to cook things for her and to wait on her a little—she had waited on so many that
it
gave her pleasure to let
me[?] have me fix things for her. She knew that the best I had
to give was always hers, and I know it meant a great deal to her. For many years I
have seldom been able to pass her in the kitchen without taking her dear head in my
arms—and she would smile her strange, wise smile at me.
She loved all all the children, but I always liked
to feel that she loved me best. We understood each other so well. Though she was so
deaf, I never had to raise my voice to her. We were always very happy together.
I am fairly well, and am working hard on a new book “The Professor’s House”5 which I hope will be out next autumn. Wasn’t it funny about sister Jessie6 flying about in the movie7 world with “A Lost Lady”8? I knew you would see the humor of that.
My love to you, dear friend, and a deeper gratitude than I can ever express. Willie