My darling Ruth,
Even after you have been absent for three and a half days—I still love you. Surprised?
How was the rest of the trip? Your first day sounded like a bad one, but from then on you should have had cool nights at least.
Dr. West docked here this morning at about 7 o’clock. He was sort of non-committal about whether or not he was surprised, but he did say (honestly) that he thought I was lucky and (dishonestly, I think) that he also thought you were lucky too. We agreed unanimously about the first. He just said to tell you that he would write soon as he has something interesting to tell you.
The parents must have ex-communicated me—without the usual document so stating, as no letter has yet arrived. Perhaps the shock was too great. They had better send those pictures back at any rate.
Work goes on as usual; i.e: most everything backwards, but a little comes out O.K., so there isn’t too much room to kick. Also study has been started on pharmacology—just a little though. It really wouldn’t do to start too suddenly. And I’m getting to bed at 10 o’clock these nights—there isn’t any attraction to keep me up now, but I’m counting the hours until there will be. Right now it has been 5,350 minutes until since I have seen you, and just think of the thousands yet to pass before I shall see you again—I’m fair adrift in a sea of abandonment.
Sweetheart, after seeing you every evening you can’t imagine—or can you?—how I miss you when I can’t see you any evening. You are—or were—maybe, will be—so sweet to me. (Dr. West just asked me to tell you that he thinks my letters are too long? Think so?). Take care of yourself darling, and don’t get thrown from a broncho, or fall down a cliff.
Kiss that dear finger for me so that it won’t feel so empty.
Good-bye, for a little while, dear heart,
Harold