I've got a queer feeling inside me that I shall win through yet.
Well, I'm finished; and it's about time.

I've run my pen over a good many sheets, and it has been a kind of relief--I began writing this about three weeks ago.

Harry the Blower--that's the mailman--comes only once a month now, and not on time at that.
I suppose the drought will break sooner or later, and when it breaks, the Bank is certain to send up and take possession of what's left.

So I'm a ruined man, any way.
Good-bye, Joan, old friend.

I've written to the lawyer, and Biddy will be served with the papers soon after this reaches you.