I’m in a bad humor to-night & shouldn’t try to even say hello; but for some reason or other just writing to you has a soothing appeal to me. Don’t you remember how, no matter what kind of a humor I was in when I arrived, I always left you with the thought that I had just been inside of heaven? Even the night you & I stood on the dam at Lord’s & you had your way I left in the most disheartened manner a man could go, and even lower than that at the dance, if it were possible. Then, in the end, have you bring me to the very heights, high above the clouds & sailing for the moon, all because you gave me hope that there might still be a chance.
Do you perchance remember these things, things to me held very dear. I can even remember how nervous I was when I walked up to that meeting and asked for you, how I met & spent a very pleasant evening with your parents to say nothing of how quickly, I thought, you got clear of me that night. Into Heaven again the following Thursday night at taking you to the dance & from then on always having you at sometime or other through the day, in my mind. Didn’t you suggest before I left, that as soon as I got over here that I’d forget you? Do you think I have? Perhaps you’d like me too? Or do you really love me? You’ve never really said yes or no. My faith in you stands firm.
P.S. I was mad because those pictures hadn’t arrived yet. Somebody’s getting a bawling out to-morrow.