Sh-h...! I'm off!
J.
Wednesday, more than midnight.
Dearest S.,
I'm a dying woman but my sketch is done! I've lived on board the typewriter since twelve o'clock on Monday, coming briefly ashore for a snatch of food or sleep, but it's done and I adore it! (Says the author, modestly.) The heavenly mad haste of the actual doing makes up for all the agonies of the start, restoring the years that the locusts have eaten. I'll tell you all about it in the morning.
Drowsily but triumphantly,
Jane.
Thursday.
Sally, my dear, I wouldn't thank King George to be my uncle, as Aunt Lyddy would say! I never experienced anything in all my life as satisfying as pounding out that word Curtain!
Want to hear about it? You must,—you can't elude me.