My friend has not called. I send her poems. She says she likes them, though they tell too much about farm life, too little about me. When I visit her in the summer, she says she hates her job, she’d like for me to live closer, that she’s afraid...
When we first saw Mary Miles, I will say that our hearts went out to her—you always seem to know, in the very first instant, when a person, particularly a child, is going to mean something special to you. Not that Mary Miles was a child...
