p.

5.

in my mind, do not seem important or interesting
enough if left a few days - or else they make me
feel that I am making too much of a little thing,
& you will think I am becoming silly & weak minded.
I notice so often in your letters, that you write about
some very ordinary & every day things, but you write in
such a delightfully easy, free & amusing way, it gives
me tremendous pleasure to read it. Nobody could possibly
write better & more loevely letters than you do, & I can promise
you my darling sweetheart, that nobody could possibly
appreciate them more than I do. They arrive in my
office, usually at about 10.30, & I read them at once;
my pot of tea arrives at about the same time, & so I
have a cigarette or two & settle down. I read it in my
room again after lunch - then again in the evening
with a whiskey & soda before dinner. So, on top of everything
else, I make the most of them. And of course, for
the next few days, I am in & out of there & writing
back to you. My bundle of letters is quite a big
one by now, it was pathetic in February, when I had
two, & a few cables & your three letters to Oswestry &
your [wire?] to Oswestry - & I used to read them again
& again, wringing the last ounce & shred of meaning
out of them. You must know the feeling too.

You know darling - I feel now that when we were together
I did not tell you enough that I loved you or how or
how much I loved you, & how sweet & beautiful & lovely
& gorgeous & wonderful you were, & how pretty & clever
& funny & amusing & interesting & kind & how smart & attractive
& seductive, & how you feel & how you smell - & all the

5.

in my mind, do not seem important or interesting
enough if left a few days - or else they make me
feel that I am making too much of a little thing,
& you will think I am becoming silly & weak minded.
I notice so often in your letters, that you write about
some very ordinary & every day things, but you write in
such a delightfully easy, free & amusing way, it gives
me tremendous pleasure to read it. Nobody could possibly
write better & more loevely letters than you do, & I can promise
you my darling sweetheart, that nobody could possibly
appreciate them more than I do. They arrive in my
office, usually at about 10.30, & I read them at once;
my pot of tea arrives at about the same time, & so I
have a cigarette or two & settle down. I read it in my
room again after lunch - then again in the evening
with a whiskey & soda before dinner. So, on top of everything
else, I make the most of them. And of course, for
the next few days, I am in & out of there & writing
back to you. My bundle of letters is quite a big
one by now, it was pathetic in February, when I had
two, & a few cables & your three letters to Oswestry &
your [voice?] to Oswestry - & I used to read them again
& again, wringing the last ounce & shred of meaning
out of them. You must know the feeling too.

You know darling - I feel now that when we were together
I did not tell you enough that I loved you or how or
how much I loved you, & how sweet & beautiful & lovely
& gorgeous & wonderful you were, & how pretty & clever
& funny & amusing & interesting & kind & how smart & attractive
& seductive, & how you feel & how you smell - & all the