It is raining here to-night. I wonder it the rain is beating on the

windows of the Tower Rooms, and if you are snug within, with Pittiwitz

purring and the fire snapping, and I wonder if throughout all that rain

you are sending any thought to me.

Perhaps I shouldn't ask it. But I do ask for another letter. What the

last was to me I have told you. I shall live on the hope of the next.

Faithfully and gratefully always, ROGER POOLE.




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