My Dearest Mary,
I just talked to your mother, the effects of which I don't know and greatly fear. I can't tell you that I did what was
right, but only that I did what I thought best.
She called and asked where, or if I knew where, you were. I was taken by surprise and didn't know what to say.
The conversation wasn't long, but I could tell that I had to say more than nothing. So I called her back
I was worried that she would find out from you in any event. What good would my living be then - to have your mother
dislike and distrust me. TO have her wish me to stop seeing you.
I tell you and swear that neither hell nor the very bonds of life should stop me [seeing you], but
only your words. These alone I fear. I fear because I love you. I would lie to God and outwit the devil
if I thought that in the end it would be good for you. I can only do what I think right, for I know nothing else, and the right
is hard to know.
I'm sorry that I'm not more clever.
Mother was reasonably enough suspicious of the time I spent with Richard. I was, after all, still in
high school. She did stop us from seeing one another at one time, and we met secretly through that time.
Richard put a lot of effort into mother and I can remember walks in the evening where mother and Richard
walked in front, and I behind. Actually, I can remember a lot of evenings like that with a lot of different gentlemen.
Mother was the most interesting - and best - person I ever knew. And others, too, recognized the beauty
of her soul.