Isn't this nice paper? A biggish block of it costs 65 c. I shall bring you one. There's fresh nougat here, too. I must put a great lump of it in my box for you. You see where all my thoughts turn to. Yesterday, par exemple, it was as warm as summer. I sat on a bank under an olive tree and fell a-dreaming. Now I came back as a surprise and just sent you a wire to the office: “Look here she's back Rib,” and then I lighted the lamp and arranged the flowers and your presents were on the table. And at last your steps—your key in the door…. Or I came again as a surprise and phoned you from the station. “Is that page 135 you, Jack? I've just arrived,” I sat there thinking like this until I nearly wept for joy. It seemed too good to be true. Will it really happen … really and truly?

I'm so subdued to-day. I expected N.Z. letters and got none, and it's very windy and cold, and my work is thick, absolutely thick, for the moment. Under it all is: Will the offensive prevent me coming back? Will the Channel be closed? You know this mood. Your letter to-morrow will start the wheels going round again, and I'll be a gay girl and write more. But I don't seem to have seen anything to tell you of. I feel in a sort of quiet daze of anxiety. I tell you so you will understand the tone of this letter. All is well really. But I'd like to call out your name very loudly until you answer and I begin to run….