Continued, The Correspondent
Sybil Van Antwerp
USA
Syb,
France is splendid! You’re missing out. Stewart lies around in his swimsuit all day reading magazines and he cooks at night.
It’s bliss. I’m working on a serial for the Times a bit and riding my bike every day (only at a moseying pace; don’t get to thinking I exert myself), and I walk to the shops every afternoon for bread and cheese.
I’m slim again, despite the food and wine.
You’ll wear the gray well (hopefully it’ll go silver), but don’t cut it short at the same time; too much shock at once. My suggestion is to keep it shoulder length.
You better not say those kinds of things about her marriage to your daughter with things already strained—your own marriage was a filthy sewer even though you were home from work every night by six. It’s a different time and plenty of women are having children into their forties.
The photo is great. Thank you. I’ve framed it and set it in the parlor and all my friends love it.
They can’t believe, with my accent, I’m Irish.
When I take time to think about it, you know it really is something, two orphans like us, ending up Stones, living in a house with maid service.
Real life rags to riches. You look wise for nine, but grave, as you always did.
That neat little bob and your loafers and jumper like a doll, and then that expression on your face!
It kills me. Your watchful little look, the way your little mouth is set.
I feel I remember you so clearly as a child, but it’s not possible. I only know you through photographs.
Heading up to Paris next week for a few shows, Xxxx,
Felix
Forgot—all OK with the car?