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.