African letters, that he had, "Always considered what I feel for you as a 'sagrada thing.' It was something that struck me like lightning at the crossroads of roads in Latisana in the rain. I have been trying to cure it for a long time but with no result. There is no remedy. Except in the Calle de Remedios."
"What sagrada." A sacred thing. It must not have been easy for her to accept what Papa felt for me, especially in the early days. It was only natural that his death had made me want to sleep so much.
"...We have received from friends, and are still receiving, newspaper articles." Mary's letter continued later "and you can imagine how many deadly, transient ones they make you feel and how frustrated at the thought of all the other poor spirits who cannot correct the mistakes that the newspapers must have made about them, as they did with ours.
"In fact, you know, the first fall and camping among the elephants and leopards was fun, the moon and our fire shining and the night getting cooler after the too hot day. It would have been pure fun if we had been more certain of my broken ribs (I thought there was something wrong with the heart, as heart and wrist were acting strangely) and if Papa hadn't hurt his leg and shoulder and arm. (We only found out more later, about his internal troubles - kidney and liver - but he rests and gets a little better every day.)
"Your poetry book arrived right after the accident, they are fresh and clean like a crisp sea breeze and lovely and, above all, they are poetic. I am so proud to have my copy and..."
Poor Mary, who knows how she was now. "Miss Mary broke two ribs." Papa had written to me in the last letter "and she injured her left knee but she is O.K., apart from the shock that sometimes gives her (temporarily) a...
* sacred
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