I have often lunched with you in Park Lane and found myself the only survivor.

I might have driven on the white roads, or through the leafy lanes, of France, with a fool, or with the wisest of all things, a child: with you, it would have been impossible.

You should thank me sincerely for having saved you from an experience that each of us would have always regretted.
Will you ask me why then, when I was in prison, I accepted with grateful thanks your offer?
My dear Frank, I don't think you will ask so thoughtless a question.

The prisoner looks to liberty as an immediate return to all his ancient energy, quickened into more vital forces by long disuse.

When he goes out, he finds he has still to suffer: his punishment, as far as its effects go, lasts intellectually and physically just as it lasts socially: he has still to pay: one gets no receipt for the past when one walks out into the beautiful air....
I have now spent the whole of my Sunday afternoon--the first real day of summer we have had--in writing to you this long letter of explanation.
I have written directly and simply: I need not tell the author of "Elder Conklin" that sweetness and simplicity of expression take more out of one than fiddling harmonics on one string.