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a house and I have nothing except bed and fancy rooms but there's no water nor light and I'm writing you to what paper I find around.  I bought for you a few little things and I'm going to buy quite a lot for our home.  I love you more than ever dear and I can't wait much longer to see you.  I love you dear, again, I like to write it to you.  I received yesterday an old letter from you, dated June 2nd, the one in which you write about the world being like a hamburger.  Amusing idea and true.  What's more true is that ourselves we are ashamed to apear like what we are, to be labeled somehow.  I, for instance, try to be as much as possible not an artist around here and I forgot that that's the happiest possible thing to be. But after the war I'm going to be so and I may try to look that way even.  About the baby goat I wrote you, we all have been very sad for days because 


































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