They were not ready to begin yet. They would begin later. But they did not know that they would begin later. But they did not know that they would talk about her at all. It would come up like the wind. It would begin slowly. It would begin slowly and then it would [cannot read] But they did not know that it would begin at all. Yes, they did know it would begin. It would begin, but when would it begin, and who would begin it?
There were only three of them on the gallery. Now They sat in silence, looking at watching the people returning from the cemetery. The old people who returned from the cemetery were still sad. They walked along the ditchs two and three together and the people on the gallery could hear them talking to each other; but—their talking and in their walk there was sadness. There was sadness because they had just buried someone whom they had known for a long time.
But the young people who walked in front andor or behind the old people were not sad at all. They were laughing and talking as though they were returning from a ball game or
I have just finished The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman. I know I must make the effort, later this week, of saying something to Dial about your book which will be intelligent & useful. But I wanted to tell you, directly, without that somewhat inhibiting awareness of a public, that (for what it’s worth) I think you are an extraordinary artist indeed and Jane Pittman is a most moving, most beautiful, most truthful book. I am very grateful to you, much heartened, and (if I may say so) very proud.