She could write a decent letter. She did. Lots of them. To me, too. She wrote the best letters I ever read. They were intelligent, humorous, and—why shouldn’t I tell the truth?—ardent. Fervid is nearer. Candescent is not far off. And that is how I lost her.
“P. S.” she wrote. “Burn this letter, and all of them.”
A few weeks later Belinda said, “At the rate I write you, my letters must fill a large drawer by this time.”
“Why,” I said, “I burn them. They’re all burned.”
“I never want to see you again as long as I live,” she said. “Good-by.”
And my good-by was the last communication between me and Belinda.
Blanche
Blanche is a girl
I’d hate to wed,
Because of a lot
Of things she said.
“Excuse my French”
When she says “Gee-whiz!”
On the telephone:
“Guess who this is.”
You ask her did
She like the show
Or book, she’ll say,
“Well, yes and no.”