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October 26, 1947

Dear folks,

Have just written a letter to Bob Beals.  Tho the game will come just before a long paper and an hour exam and perhaps I will go out that night--probably not--it will be worth it if I can meet Connie and Ruthie as he hopes.  Ina's mother came through with her address, and Jean and I have cooperated to write her; Jean was dying to pour on thick how she is going steady with a man of the Yale Divinity School--knowing Ina's state of religion--but refrained and the tone of her part was quite restrained. Ina has a one-room apartment about sixteenby [[sic]] twenty feet divided into bath, kitchen, and living room by chin-high partitions; it is not conveniently located.

Have closeted myself this weekend, and still have so much to do I don't see. . .Read Richard 3 today, and Samuel book 1--30 pages of scriptures is quite a lot for me.  Yesterday did two books of Aristotle and next week's English.  Will have to read over all English this next week for the Hour Exam Friday.  That will be the easiest, except for the Humanity one--which will be so because they are not giving an hour exam, but rather a three page paper--hard because it requires so much concentration and re-reading--on whether Achilles changed and how in the Iliad, or whether Homer was an atheist.   Aristotle has become much plainer since my discussion with Miss Coffin.  How I hate those Chronicle plays of Shakespeare--the noble branches with their various contesting members are impossible to keep straight; and his language is too uniformly violent, the words "curse, foul, bloody, fair, gentle, forswear," etc [[strikethrough]] being [[/strikethrough]] taking the place of any interesting [[strikethrough]] metaphors or [[/strikethrough]] dissertations of the intellect; all the characters seem so short-tempered that they can not properly express themself [[sic]] except in the crudest terms.

Jean is patiently eyeing me from her pillow; so now I must put away this machine, which I conveniently use on my knees in bed always, for it is so light, throw up the window, wind my clock, stumble over the sheets on the clothes-line we have strung up, and flounder into bed.

Good night,

Doris