It   yet late, turned into Laundress Passage. Fatcs and closed tters; but so I  come o darkness  on t over tairs to t. t cast a foolscap rectangle of paleness onto t pavement, and it  rectangle, about to turn my key in t I first sater. Anote rectangle, it ep from ttom, .

    I closed t ts usual place bery. Poor Bailey. No one ed  gray book for ty years. Sometimes I ’s tiny er  ting.

    A letter. For me. t . ts tents,  man a certain amount of trouble. Altyle of ting  it ten by a cters seemed untrained. trokes eito notco tters t spelled out my name. Eacaken separately—M A R G A R E t L E A—as a neing enterprise. But I kne is the hand of an invalid.

    It gave me a queer feeling. Yesterday or t my business, quietly and in private, some unknown person—

    some stranger—o trouble of marking my name onto t ed a thing?

    Still in my coat and , I sank onto tair to read tter. (I never read  making sure I am in a secure position. I ting on a er Babies, I ions of underer life t I unconsciously relaxed my muscles. Instead of being field buoyant by ter t so vividly surrounded me in my mind, I plummeted to t. I can still feel the ;car under my fringe now. Reading can be dangerous.)

    I opened tter and pulled out a sten in t. to my  manuscripts. t secret to it. Patience and practice are all t is required. t and to cultivate an inner eye.  t er, fire, lig to study not just tters but otion. t relax. til you ao a dream self oucickling your surface. t. tention of te