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Dear Doris:

Many happy returns of your birthday! I trust the book I sent has reached you and the box of cicadas I mailed yesterday. I have developed such a bad foot that I can hardly hobble, so haven't been to the bank. I don't know what I did but the heel it is so lame, [[strikethrough]] the heel [[/strikethrough]] and to touch it even is painful, and it hurts to walk either barefooted or with shoes. There is no abrasion, just a muscle thing.

Now I want to tell you how terrified I am at the thoughts of you driving around N.Y.  Jack has the ideal driver's disposition, but neither you nor I have it. We are both all tensed up over it, and tension isn't good for us or our driving. I had a bad smashup last fall that I didn't tell you about. I got out of it physically pretty well but paid over $500 to repair the car. Dolores here in the office last week was run into and is black & blue all over, and the car a shambles. She is a good little driver too and grew up driving in NY. city. She says it is inconceivably worse there than here. I have been waking up nights and trying to calm myself as I think of you either maimed for life or killed. I just can't stand it. You don't need to money that bad. A car is a great expense too. Not only the first cost, but the upkeep. I pay $184 a year (at present) on insurance alone, and it is steadily going up.

Don't be rushed into buying anything for an apartment. Think of your [[strikethrough]] success in/ability to [[/strikethrough]] chances of getting rid of it sometime in the future. You are working very hard, you say, and to push yourself all your spare time is not good for you or anyone. Let up, go more slowly or you'll find yourself on the verge of another breakdown.
With love
Mother.