Dearest Knight:
I languish a little, but not much. I’m writing a play out of “Idylls of the King.” I wish you would be Launcelot, Tommy Page could be Merlin. I knew you would understand about the Amazon and horse. I’m glad you liked the . . .
“How do you spell breeches, Wally?”
“What?”
“Breeches.”
“B-r-e-e-c-h-e-s. What are you saying about them?” he inquired, coming to look over her shoulder.
“This is private,” she said, and wrote:
. . . breeches. Wally did not mind your license. He thought you ought to have it. The police are so crooel.
Your loving friend,
Isabelle.