AUGUST 6. It is really wrong of me to allow Martin to go on. This morning he told me he had bought the special license for our marriage, and this evening he showed me our tickets for Sydney—two berths, first cabin, steadiest part of the ship. Oh, my dear heart, if you only knew that I have had my ticket these many days, and that it is to take me out first on the Great Expedition—to the still bigger Unknown, the Everlasting Sea, the Immeasurable Eternity!
I must be brave. Although I am a little cowardly sometimes, I can be brave.
I have definitely decided to-night that I will tell him. But how can I look into his face and say. . . .
AUGUST 7. I have made up my mind to write to Martin. One can say things so much easier in a letter—I can, anyway. Even my voice affects me—swelling and falling when I am moved, like a billow on the ocean.
I find my writing cannot any longer be done in a sitting position in bed, but I can prop my book on my breast and write lying down.
MARY O'NEILL'S LETTER TO MARTIN CONRAD
August 9th, 6 A.M.