Mind--if I don't come back to
you--you're just to think, as I told you before, that it's _all
right_. Nothing matters--_nothing_--but seeing this thing
through. Any day we may be in the thick of such a fight as I
suppose was never seen in the world before. Or any night--hard
luck! one may be killed in a beastly little raid that nobody
will ever hear of again. But anyway it's all one. It's worth
it.
'_Your_ letters don't sound to me as though you were
particularly enjoying life. Why don't you ever give me news of
Arthur? He writes me awfully jolly letters, and always says
something nice about you. Father has written to me _three_
times--decent, I call it,--though he always abuses Lloyd
George, and generally puts some Greek in I can't read. I wonder
if we were quite right about Broomie? You never say anything
about her either. But I got a letter from Beryl the other day,
and what Miss B. seems to be doing with Father and the estate
is pretty marvellous.
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