He spent hours composing a reply. And the thing he finally sent off,
once it was committed to the post, seemed quite the worst of all his
efforts. His impulse was to send another on the heels of it. But he
waited a week, then wrote again. And this time, the stiffness of
self-consciousness was not quite so paralyzing. He managed to give her a
little real information about the condition of the twins and the
household. About himself, he stated that he was well, though busier than
he liked to be.
He experienced a very vague, faint satisfaction, two days later, over
the reflection that this letter was in her hands, and he came presently
to the audacious resolution that until she forbade him, he would go on
writing to her every week. She'd see that she needn't answer and it
would no doubt add something--how much he didn't dare to try to
estimate--to her happiness, to know that all was going well in the home
that she had left.
She began pretty soon to answer these letters with stiff little notes,
strictly limited to a bulletin of her own activities and a grateful
acknowledgment of the latest one he had sent her.
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