Your letter and card this morning were so perfect that (only you will understand this) I felt you'd brought up a little kitten by Wingley and put it on our bed and we were looking at it together. But it was a very kitten of very kittens … with wings. I must answer it this once and risk breaking the agreement not to write.

Yes, that suddenness of parting—that last moment— But this last time I had a deep, strange confidence, a feeling so different to that other desperate parting when I went to France. We are both so much stronger and we do see our way and we do know what the future is to be. That doesn't make me miss you less, though…

I'm in bed—not very O.K. The moustiques have bitten me and I've had pains and fever and dysentery. Poisoned, I suppose. It was almost bound to happen. But don't worry. Annette is in the kitchen and her soups and rice climb up the stairs.

I think I've got a maid, too, Mme. Reveilly, 5bis. Rue des Poilus. She's a police inspector's sister and she looks indeed as though she had sprung out of a nest of comic policemen. Fat, dark, sitting on the sofa edge, grasping, strangling indeed a small black bead bag. “Si vous cherchez une personne de confianc Madame et pas une imbecile …” she began. I feel that was a poor compliment to my appearance. Did I look like a person who wantonly cherished imbeciles to do the house work? But of course all the time she recounted her virtues I saw the most charming imbecile with woolly shoes like rabbits and a great broad beaming smile … whom I couldn't help dismissing rather regretfully.

The villa is even lovelier than it was. Once I am up again and out again, I feel it will be almost too fair. I do miss you, tho'. I have (I have told you a thousand times) always such a longing to share all that is good with you and you alone. Remember that. Events move so awfully strangely. We live and talk and tear our Daily News up page 41 together and all the while there is a growth going on— gorgeous deep-down glories like bougainvilleas twine from your window to mine…

I've begun my journal book. I want to offer it to Methuen—to be ready this Xmas. Do you think that's too long to wait? It ought to be rather special. Dead true—and by dead true I mean like one takes a sounding— (yet gay withal). Oh, it's hard to describe. What do you advise?