Loving was self-forgetfulness, pure delighting in another human being. There are so many things I want to tell you, and they stand on such different levels, that the effect is necessarily confusing and discordant, and I find myself doubting if I am really giving you the thread of emotion that should run through all this letter. I had never dreamed of such a friend as you. They'll be back soon enough—or not at all. Some Chinaman might take it into his head to shout: "Death to the foreign devils!" And out of that wall yonder would boil battle and murder and sudden death. Only identity, and a chance to be someone other than a nun. Then instantly she got out of bed and proceeded to dress. 47 was no more than a sort of railway compartment on the way to that.
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