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have been have packed up their manifestations a long time ago and drifted away over the grass, wisps of mist between the apple trees, without one backward glance of regret or recollection. It’s incredible to think Sam was born and spent his childhood here. I’m glad he doesn’t show it! We slept last night in the room he was born in. Or rather he slept, I couldn’t. I lay awake and found it difficult to breathe, as if all the life in the air had long since been exhausted in keeping the dying living a little longer. It was hard to believe anyone had ever been born alive there. I know you’re saying crossly “She’s still morbid” but I’m not. I’ve never been more normal. I feel contented and placid.

[Looking up from the letter, thinking embarrassedly]

Should I have told him? no my own secret  tell no one  not even Sam  why haven’t I told Sam? it’d do him so much good he’d feel so proud of himself, poor dear  no  I want to keep it just my baby  only mine  as long as I can  and it will be time enough to let Ned know when I go to New York  he can suggest a good obstetrician  how delighted he’ll be when he hears! he always said it would be the best thing for me well, I do feel happy when I think  and I love Sam now  in a way  it will be his baby too

[Then with a happy sigh, turns back to letter]

But speaking of Sam’s birth, you really must meet his mother sometime. It’s amazing how little she is like him, a strange woman from the bit I saw of her last night. She has been writing Sam regularly once a week ever since she’s known we were married, the must urgent invitations to visit her. They were really more like commands, or prayers. I suspect she is terribly lonely all by herself in this big house. Sam’s feeling toward her puzzles me.