if she'd thrown me down to marry an old man or a boy who couldn't have gone to war." You see, Carley, service men feel queer about that sort of thing.
It's something we got over there, and none of us will ever outlive it.
Now, the point of this is that I am asking you to go see Rust, and cheer him up, and do what you can for the poor devil.

It's a good deal to ask of you, I know, especially as Rust saw your picture many a time and knows you were my girl.

But you needn't tell him that you--we couldn't make a go of it.
And, as I am writing this to you, I see no reason why I shouldn't go on in behalf of myself.
The fact is, Carley, I miss writing to you more than I miss anything of my old life.

I'll bet you have a trunkful of letters from me--unless you've destroyed them.

I'm not going to say how I miss your letters.