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The enclosed handsome faces will save many words and explain why I had to leave Jaffrey4 and come back to town2. I suppose I’d have had to come soon, for a lot of rather dreary business matters had come up. I thought every week about going up to see you, but after I got to work in that quiet place I was afraid to do anything else—might spoil the play to move, even. You see I had to stop 2soon enough, anyhow. If there is anything I can well do without, it’s medals5. But the people who want to give them to you are often nice and mean it very kindly.
After I got your letter I wrote the Knopf office for the
book6 you had sent me, and they replied they had seventy books that had
come in during the summer, and did I want them all, please? Yesterday I had the lot
sent down and dragged yours to the surface. Thank you, my dear. It’s been a long
while since I’ve seen a new book by you, and it shall
be the first one I read after I get through with doctors. Nothing but a chronic
appendix that crops up now and then and is never quite bad enough to compel compel me to have it taken out7. Otherwise I’ve been awfully well all
summer, but this has been bothering for three weeks,—so I suppose I’d have had
to leave the country soon, medal or no medal. I was having such a jolly time up
in the country4—not being a hermit,
either. I have some nice old friends up there. But I had every single
4 morning all for
myself. Here—well I’ve been here nine days and it’s been a steady grind of perfectly
drea dreary and deadening things, and all
necessary. I keep wondering why I can’t escape them and side-step them as I used to.
So forgive this complaining, rather whiney scrawl. I didn’t start out to tell you my troubles, but only to tell you
where I am and why.
You’ll hear from me soon again, in a more cheerful tone, I hope.
My love to you, dear Dorothy Willa