I walked home and took up a packet of her letters; this one was lying on top:

Dear Red,

I am glad that people like your play, that Romeo and Juliet play. That was the one we saw at the Globe, I think. The Capu­lets frightened me much. What is the name of your new play that you are writing at? I can’t remember. Is it the Merchant play?

You should write a play about your papa and his glove-making. The twins are sick again. Hamnet is the worst, sick at night, and all that. Judith has a flushed face and she coughs and coughs, and I keep her in bed.

Write soon.

Love,

Ann

I try to forget the casualness and say it belongs to a buried past and then I say to myself, if this is dead then all life is equally dead, including myself.

I opened another letter and a dried flower fell out of the yellowed paper. I had to hold the sheet to the window before I could read it, meantime trying to harden myself, half remembering. My wits are diseased, I thought.

Dear Red,