The ink, contained in a grimy bottle unearthed in the outhouse, was old, and made blotches as soon as it touched the paper. Sebastian traveled at seventy, eighty, then one-hundred down the freeway. My mind is full of ideas and images that I have been cherishing and accumulating—dreams of travelling side by side, of lunching quietly together in some jolly restaurant, of moonlight and music and all that side of life, of seeing you dressed like a queen and shining in some brilliant throng—mine; of your looking at flowers in some old-world garden, our garden—there are splendid places to be got down in Surrey, and a little runabout motor is quite within my means.
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