… You've sold my book.¹ Do you mind asking them to send the cheque to me? Pure childishness. But I want to see it with my own eyes and send it with my own hands to Kay. I feel the Bank will close… Re the matter of the book—I Suppose I shall have final say. I couldn't have The Woman at the Store reprinted, par example. If it's left to C. or if C. has a say, it would be bad… I do want the story called Second Helping that I'm at now to be included…

Another change in the near future. I have not mentioned it, but this place is intolerably noisy. I am so sensitive to noise, oh, so sensitive. It hurts me, really. They bang my door, other doors, shout, shriek, crash. I can't endure it and really can't work or sleep. The doctor suggested une forte dose de véronal. Merci. But really it's bad. I just mentioned this to J. She came one day when I was feeling it a bit badly. To-day she page 13 arrived with a carriage and fur rugs and silk cushions. Took me to their villa. It is really superb, exquisite outside and in. They had a chaise longue in the garden—a tiny tray with black coffee out of a silver pot, Grand Marnier, cigarettes, little bunch of violets, all ready. Then we went in to tea. Their villa is really—it's a dream. I mean even the furnishing is perfect—Spanish silk bed coverlets, Italian china, the tea appointments perfect, stillness, maids in tiny muslin aprons flitting over carpets … and so on. Then they showed me into a room, grey and silver, facing south, with a balcony—the only touch of colour a little rose brocade couch with gilt legs—and J. said, “Now, my dear, we want you to come here, and live here. It's dead quiet. You can be alone all day if you like. There is the garden. We are here … We want you here until May. You're going to get well. You can't afford to fight or see ugly people or have ugly trays.” And then she laughed and said, “The Lord has delivered you into our hands, and please God we'll cure you.” What do you think of that? … Why should they do that? Why should J. say, “Then I'll be at rest about you, darling. I shall know you're safe”? It's as though my Mother were here again. I miss her so. I often long to lean against Mother and know she understands things … that can't be told … that would fade at a breath … delicate needs … a feeling of fineness and gentleness. But what Mother hadn't is an understanding of Work.

The villa is very large—a huge hall lighted from above. It has delicate balconies, and a tower. I want you to see it. I can't make you see it. I want you to see the garden and the potting-shed where I can walk and look at the little plants. Huge springing palms—great branches of orange against the sky. [A drawing of one.] No, I can't draw them…

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