as though I had been on the point of crying out, and you had cried instead—the miraculous, unearthly feeling of complete communion.
And I don't need to tell you that I fear the war: it is like a plague, or some great monster waiting. Alone, I feel helpless，(at best) fatalistic. when we are together I feel that we have such virtue in us that we shall, somehow, be able to withstand it. But being apart it's no good, no good at all.
I wish I knew something definite, whether you will be able to manage to persuade the Consulate. I feel that you will, but until I really know, I shall be anxious still.
I don't know what to say, my Wig. I'm not depressed, I'm not happy. I seem to be in a sort of limbo where everything is half?and?half; quite obviously, there is only half of me here. I was quite calm and deliberate and sober when I said, the other day, that my soul had left me to nestle with you. It seems to be such a simple matter of fact.
I think it is a very good thing that I am working hard. I mistrust myself when I am left alone and writing articles eases the strain. Without it I should be rushing from deep depression to a sort of hysterical nonchalance, and that would perhaps break something.
But how glad, unutterably glad, I am that you are coming back. The sweetest part of my life now is when I think of us sitting together in the kitchen eating, of us lying together in each others arms, with your head on my shoulder. I dare not think.