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Sunday, July 7, 1901

My dear Mother -

Your letter received, telling about wayward foolish sons, and their different methods they have employed in being the calamities of their parents. The letter pained me. It showed me you were worrying all to much. Please don't worry so. 
Paris is wicked, and most of the Parisians are rotten. There is a fast set here of Americans, and many of these have ruined their prospects. Logan over here is one fellow who will never pull out. There are others. Women [[strikethrough]] do [[/strikethrough]] are the cause of their fall, and worse. 

Now although I am gay (generally) underneath my lightheartedness there is a strong current that rules over and guides my spirit. And my reason will never allow me to encumber myself with vicious company. Such things jar on me as crude reds and greens would. And I have ideals which are more dear to me, which are always in my mind. Which also assists in preventing me from becoming side-tracked - I long to produce great work and feel that to live ten years I can do much to be proud of. I hope to marry and have a home. And all these wishes, these desires overcome temptations. I enjoy my work here as an infant would a toy. I am continually working therefore always happy. I wonder on looking in the mirror what the great Sculptor is going to do with me next. He certainly is busy with a transformation of various plans, which are not entirely pleasing to me. I am bald, have grown in the face much thinner, my eyes are the only feature not changed. It is becoming a strong face but not a pretty one. His [[strikethrough]] work [[/strikethrough]] moulding and changes are sure to result in the right way but here and there