about people. He never gets anything right about me—not one single thing. But then he really cares about mushrooms and takes trouble to study them.
I wonder how his first wife put up with him. She was a homely sort of person, from all accounts—the sort that are good housekeepers and mothers and all that. I think, if I’d ever had a child I could have been happier, but he has never given me one, and doesn’t seem to want to. I’m glad of that now—since I met you. It would be terrible to have his child now—it would seem like a sort of treason to you, beloved. Don’t be afraid, dearest. He never touches me—you know what I mean—and I wouldn’t let him. I don’t let him even give me his usual morning peck if I can help it. I don’t refuse, of course—that would make him suspicious at once. I just happen to be busy and keep out of his way. He’s glad, I think, because he always used to grumble at any demonstration and say, “That’ll do, that’ll do”—though he’ll let the cat swarm all over him and knead bread on his chest for hours together. I suppose he thinks a woman’s feelings don’t matter as much as a cat’s!
But I don’t know why I bother about him at all, when you, you, you are the one thing filling my heart. Oh, my darling, my Petra, my heart’s heart! You are coming back. Nothing else is of importance in the whole world. The sun’s shining and everything is happy. I went out to do some shopping today—silly, trivial things for the house—and I could have kissed the bread and the potatoes as I put them into my basket, just for joy that you and I and they exist in the same world together! Petra, beloved, you and I, you and I—oh, darling, isn’t it wonderful!
Your happy Lolo