Original Letter


                        17th March 1918.


My Own Dearest:–

I cannot remember any 17th of March that I loved you so much as I do to-day, why I wakened up this morning just surging with it and it has kept growing all day. Its great but it makes for an enormous lonesomeness. At the same time its a sweet kind of lonesomeness and I have wonderful recollections to help me. Your love, Dearest makes life a wonderful thing and I have all kinds of sympathy for men up here who haven’t someone who loves them a lot. I expect that quite a few get letters from their wives every day – although I only know of one other – but I am sure that none of them get such letters as I – so full of love and wit and humour. Never were such letters as yours, Dear no one else is clever enough.

What you tell me about the Grassal makes me absolutely sick. He must be something a whole lot less than a worm and I do not understand how nice Madame Ruthie tolerates him. I’d cheerfully poison him if I were in her place – and poisoning is far too good for him. He must be mad – damn and blast him. All women are worlds better than men but I think its truer of the old countries than America – I’m sure it is. Its a shame that women of the type of Madame Ruthie and her mother should draw such lemons. But worse than that is that you should have had the misfortune to draw me! Because you deserved the very best man in all the world, you wonderful Baby, you. And what did you get? Well only a poor stick who loves you with all the love he is capable of, who adores you and is able to appreciate his wonderful luck. Je t’aime, Baby, je t’aime beaucoup – far more than that. Your own



Ruthie: Ruth: Grassal: Madame Ruthie: