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March 17, 1915

I DID not tell you all the truth last night. When you asked me if I was writing and I said ‘Yes’ it was not quite true. I cannot write my book living in these two rooms. It is impossible—and if I do not write this book I shall die. So I am going away to-morrow to finish it. Then I promise to come back shorn of all my wickedness. It is agony to go, but I must go. Write to me, will you? I will write to you often—write to me often often, for I shall be very lonely, I know. Goodbye, just for now. I press your hands tightly—Goodbye.