"Lonesome days, liebchen,"--he had written. "It would seem almost like a
rush of light to feel you standing in the doorway now.
"My letters which I send you will tell you I am well, getting along all
right, that I love you. These are some other things. If I think they will
hurt you, I will not let you see them. But I will feel better to get them
said, and of course the easiest way to say them is to say them to you.
"I can't write. I wish I could. There are things 'way back in my thoughts
I should like to say, and say right. For I've done some thinking this
year, liebchen--while I sat here writing text-books there came a good
many thoughts.
"Text-books--any fool can write them! Lectures on what other men have
done--what do I care about them? I'll do it, for I have to, but I want
somebody to know--I want _you_ to know that I know it doesn't amount to a
hill of beans!
"Liebchen, you hear a lot of talk about the beauties of resignation.
Don't you ever believe any of it. We don't get resigned to things that
really count.
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