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Thursday morning.

Today one letter from you at home and one again at office; just been pushed under the door a few minutes ago, thank you dear, I'm worried about your health and I'm sure that you'll be very well soon, in the sun. Dr. Hurd said that he never puts more than 6-8 stiches, that nothing bad can happen because they are very superficial and that he thinks that none will come out again He says that you can very well swim. Darling please take care of you as you'd take care of your baby

Last 2 letters did me good as you reassure me of things I worry about. As I thought much about myself in the last weeks I know for sure that you are the only other human I really love, in the whole world. I am and I'm growing bitter about things (this is probably inherited from a long line of mean old ancestors, wife and child beaters, antisocial, probably stupid or dull anyway) and I'm more tempted to see bad parts in everybody and everything. (I met recently an old man called Pearson, (Herald Tribune) and after a few things I said about what I thought things he said simply that I'm too solemn about life, that most of the things around are slapstick or nothing to pay too much attention to.