I miss talking to you. I waited so long for your last letter and I have to admit I was disappointed: nothing of you, really. You were always elusive, but I used to be able to see what you were feeling at times, certainly to know if you were lying to me; few people have a face as delicately responsive as yours. I like to hear about your friends, about the things you are going to see, but it seems to me that your last letter might have been written to anyone. When I went to visit Ruth a few weeks ago, she read me out a funny section of a letter you’d written to her—about that lecture in the church—and it was word for word what you’d written to me. Or rather, to me and Lew, as you always insist on doing. I wait for your letters with such anticipation. Lew has become as silent as his father. He seems almost afraid of Baby. I’ve noticed that when he has to touch Baby, he makes a strange little series of motions. He’s grown a beard—a scruffy, woodsman kind of beard. There are other things also, but I feel disloyal. I don’t want to burden you. I tell you because I don’t know who else to tell.

Love,
Annie

Dear Annie and Lew:

I’m sorry about not making it during the break. I really had intended to come back but was swamped by the amount of work I have to do and break is the only quiet time in the dorms. For some reason I can never say no to anyone and actually agreed to go to three people’s houses for dinner this week. I’m everyone’s favorite orphan.

It was fun, though. On Monday it was Professor Corey Thatcher and his wife, Alice. I adore them, but they’re like one two-headed creature talking at you without cessation.

Wednesday was dinner at the home of my friend Pierce. Boston Brahmins. A vast house right in the middle of town, with twelve bedrooms. I got stuck with his dad, an arrogant bore whose nostril hairs seemed at the trembling verge of sentience.