Around noon a letter came from an unexpected source. I read these lines: I might well die of grief
If now the smoke trails off
Entirely in that direction.
To this the writer added, “Thus far I have survived this meaningless life, but now what is there?” This was written on thin, light blue paper, which had as a background design the old poem: If I could cease to be
No longer would these clouds
Cling to the secret mountains
Of my heart. [1.1]
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