My darling Ruth,
And time goes on, otherwise nothing seems to change—not even my mood, for I remain in the depressed condition in which I’ve been for the past week. I don’t know why I tell you this, excepting that I want us to always be able to tell each other everything with ^the assurance of sympathetic unðerstanðing (I finally did get the t ((Harold managed to cross both his d’s here, as well))) and I ‘ve no one else who might understand. Only is isn’t fair to you to write such letters, and if I can’t do better it would perhaps be better to stop writing so often.
Review has been progressing very slowly the last few days, but I did just finish reading a 576 page book by Clark called “Applied Pharmacology.” ((Clean up citation. Clark AJ. Applied pharmacology. 5th ed. London: Churchill, 1933: 1.)) It is a mixture of physiology, pharmacology, and therapeutics, still it impresses me as being a rather good little book for a review.
Have you taken any more long horseback rides? Jerry and I shoot a few rounds with his pistol every day. Sometimes I’m fairly good, and sometimes I’m rotten; however, that is sort of to be expected. “San Michele” and the acetyl values have both gone begging during the last ten days. Maybe they’ll get more attention after Friday, although the exams in surgery and public health are to be given the twenty fourth and fifth.
There doesn’t appear to be anything about which to write besides the things which I’ve said so often they may begin to be tiresome, so I’ll close for this time. Yet I do want you to know that if my love for you can grow at all,
I love you more each hour,
Harold