My darling Ruth,
It’s raining again, and appropriately too, for there is no letter from you. I was hoping one would make the morning mail for a change so the wait until Tuesday wouldn’t be so long—no luck.
Are you still wrestling with the firewood problem? Wish I were there to help you, but I’ve an idea we might not progress as rapidly as the amount of help would seem to warrant. Guess why.
The exiles are beginning to return—Dr. Heinbecker ((research)) is coming back today if his press agent (Dr. O’Leary) ((research)) has been putting out straight information. The Shalalees ((research)) have sent no word as to their plans. But I’m not interested, there is only one missing person in-as-far as I’m concerned, and I do miss her so. Time is crawling past slowly, still September is actually here. If you were going on to Portland without coming back here first I don’t know what I should do. These past three weeks have seemed the least attractive I have ever spent. Your letters have been the only bright spots of the whole time. You are so sweet to write me so often, when I know you have very many interesting things to fill your time. Each time I take a letter from the mail-box I’m as excited and trembly as can be. You surely have captured me—me and all my thoughts. The funny thing is that neither do I now, nor in the years to come shall I ever, wish it otherwise.
The acetyl values improved a bit today, thank the Lord. For the next few days pharmacology is going to get most of my time.
I must go downtown for a little while so shall stop for this time, but
I shall never stop loving you, darling,
Harold