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Brussels, June 3rd 1919. My dear Love, If I should write the day I feel this letter would only put you in the "dumps" too, so I will not make it over gloomy, but the weather here for one thing is something fierce - so cold and rainy and changeable, I work & sit with my overcoat on most of the time. The evenings are so long and cheerless, I don't know what to do with myself, of course I know scarcely any one, except in an official way, and whereas they have all been most gracious & cordial, I can not be with these people all the time, especially [[left margin]] My best love to every one of you as ever, I counted up 18- letters I have to write yet, to people who probably expect them. I don't suppose any one of them could think to write to me!