A Suggestion
“Have you written to thank the Froplinsons for what they sent us?” asked Egbert.
“No,” said Janetta, with a note of tired defiance in her voice; “I’ve written eleven letters today expressing surprise and gratitude for sundry unmerited gifts, but I haven’t written to the Froplinsons.”
“Someone will have to write to them,” said Egbert.
“I don’t dispute the necessity, but I don’t think the someone should be me,” said Janetta. “I wouldn’t mind writing a letter of angry recrimination or heartless satire to some suitable recipient; in fact, I should rather enjoy it, but I’ve come to the end of my capacity for expressing servile amiability. Eleven letters today and nine yesterday, all couched in the same strain of ecstatic thankfulness: really, you can’t expect me to sit down to another. There is such a thing as writing oneself out.”