I have not been able to get to a telephone even. For I am alone here, and nobody has visited me. Murry is at Garsington and my rheumatism has ramped and raged. When it really descends on me I become a crawling thing without the power of doing anything except cursing my fate. The attack ought to be over in a day or two when I will come and make my apologies in person if I may—but Lord! what a curse the flesh can be—or the bones rather.

I am so down in the depths that I cannot imagine anything ever fishing me up again.