The Judge has begun to wear a fur coat—Dakota cow fur, I think, and he looks for all the world like a turkey gobbler in distress.
I sleep on what they call here a "sanitary couch." Can't fathom the mystery of the name, for mine is so chucked with dust that I dream I'm in a sand storm crossing the Sahara, and when I awaken my sympathies are keen with the camel.
There's a new boarder here whose face looks like a chapel and every time she opens her mouth you're afraid it's going to be the Lord's Prayer. She wears a wide ruching which makes her look excited; distributes tracts, and can't see a joke. She says she's Miss and leaves envelopes around with "Mrs." written on them in red ink—modest writing fluid I've always considered it.
Will you buy me some new puffs? Mine are all ratty and I feel bare-footed without them. Enclosed is a clipping from my hair. Read it carefully. False hair is no crime as long as it matches—like that German song that says "Kissing is no sin with a pretty woman."
Have you caught "Three Weeks" yet? I had a violent attack a few days ago. Cured it with a small dose of Christian Science before meals and some of Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress, which I shook well after using.
You can imagine what disastrous effect Eleanor Glynn's book had on the "Divorce Colony." We all bunched together and said "What's the use," and if it hadn't been for the old man who eats his soup out loud, we would have bolted in a mass to suggest "Free Love" to our respective "Fiascos"—Dakota's past tense for "Fiance."
I long so to flash my calciums on a Fifth Ave. stroller that I'd flirt with God if I met him.
I close dear with a sigh over my chin, which is getting triple (an invention of the devil).