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Veined with my blood, living in me for years. And, eventually, yes, it would have killed me. Lord. Now, I'm stitched and sore, but the cyst was [[underline]] not [[/underline]] (for all we know) malignant and so I'll probably be around for awhile. 
     So much for that. Quite a journey. In the meantime, of course, I was running out of money and the medical expenses wiped me out. At this very flaming moment, I've fifty dollars in French francs in my pocket, and one blank check. Your brother. Lucky, lucky you. On the other hand, I've been very careful about my credit, so my credit's good; called Robby Lantz to tell him to send me my ticket home; called Gloria to tell her to send me some money. So. Can't leave before Thursday or Friday because (a) I must see the doctor and have the stitches taken out, and (b) a representative of ABC television is here, and is very anxious to have me do a black-white soap opera - day time - for them (baby, are the natives restless!) and we're to have dinner Thursday night to discuss the pilot show. I almost certainly won't do it, and I've already indicated the nature of some of the impossibilities involved, but I was very struck, while talking with this man, by something you've always said to me: they really don't have anyone else to turn to. Harold Robbins is here, and he threw a tremendous party, beginning at the Carlton Hotel and ending up in Antibes, for my 43rd birthday. I wrote, in the restaurant's golden book: 

     love warms,
     takes many forms,
     is always strange.
     Trust the change.

     Which brings me to the most important thing that has happened to me in this really very strange time. You know me too well for to have to go into it, and so I won't. His name is Alain, and he comes from North Africa. Naturally. You'll be meeting him in London. One day I was sitting on my terrace, lost and frightened, writing a business letter to Gloria - telling her about the loss of my Paris apartment - and I thought of Lucien and, for the very first time, all alone, under that sun, I cried and cried and cried. And that - somehow - after four years - was the end. Now I know that we will never see each other anymore. You take the high road and I'll take the low road. But, without that moment, those tears, and no matter what happens now, I would have been murdered by a growth far more deadly than my cyst. I didn't know, until that moment ended, how long a time I've spent in pain and fear, how little I thought of myself because my lover thought so little of me. My whole life came rushing

Transcription Notes:
On review, this is page 2 of a 3 page letter spanning pages 41-43 of this collection. Should be indexed accordingly.