I intended, when I sat down to write, the very first thing I
said, to thank you for your wonderful invitation, seconded so
loyally and cordially by Katy, to make my home with you until the
time comes-- if it ever does come--when I shall have a home of my
own again. And just as simply and wholeheartedly as you made the
offer, I accept it. I am enclosing the address and the receipt
for my furniture in storage, and a few lines ordering it
delivered at your house and the bill sent to me. I only kept a
few heirlooms and things of Mother's and Father's that are very
precious to me. Whenever Eileen takes her things you can order
mine in and let me know, and I'll take a day or two off and run
down for a short visit.
Mentioning Eileen makes me think of John. I think of him more
frequently than I intend or wish that I did, but I feel my ninth
life is now permanently extinguished concerning him. I thought I
detected in your letter, Linda dear, a hint of fear that he might
come back to me and that I might welcome him. If you have any
such feeling in your heart, abandon it, child, because, while I
try not to talk about myself, I do want to say that I rejoice in
a family inheritance of legitimate pride. I couldn't give the
finest loyalty and comradeship I had to give to a man, have it
returned disdainfully, and then furbish up the pieces and present
it over again. If I can patch those same pieces and so polish
and refine them that I can make them, in the old phrase, "as good
as new," possibly in time-
But, Linda, one thing is certain as the hills of morning.
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