But I want you to have the consolation and the comfort of knowing
that I have found at least two friends that I hope will endure.
One is a woman who has a room across the hall from mine in my
apartment house. She is a newspaper woman and life is very full
for her, but it is filled with such intensely interesting things
that I almost regret having made my life work anything so prosaic
as inanimate houses; but then it's my dream to enliven each house
I plan with at least the spirit of home. This woman--her name is
Dana Meade--enlivens every hour of her working day with something
concerning the welfare of humanity. She is a beautiful woman in
her soul, so extremely beautiful that I can't at this minute
write you a detailed description of her hair and her eyes and her
complexion, because this nice, big, friendly light that radiates
from her so lights her up and transfigures her that everyone says
how beautiful she is, and yet I have a vague recollection that
her nose is what you would call a "beak," and I am afraid her
cheek bones are too high for good proportion, and I know that her
hair is not always so carefully dressed as it should be, but what
is the difference when the hair is crowned with a halo? I can't
swear to any of these things; they're sketchy impressions. The
only thing I am absolutely sure about is the inner light that
shines to an unbelievable degree. I wish she had more time and I
wish I had more time and that she and I might become such friends
as you and I are.
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