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Mrs. Watkins spent an hour with patient today. She says he did not remember her at all. In my view the visit was helpful to patient and should be repeated soon.

DOCTOR Y.

I disagree. E.C.T. should be attempted.

DOCTOR X.

Patient had a very disturbed night with recurrence of hallucinations. Have put him back on Equanil.

DOCTOR Y.

DEAR DOCTOR Y,

You asked me in your first letter if I could remember anything at all in my marriage that seemed to me strange at the time. I don’t think I know any longer what strange is—not after seeing Charles in this state. But I’m sending you, after lying awake all night to think it over carefully, the first letter my husband sent me. I did think it very strange then, because he had not said anything about loving me before, although I had been his pupil for seven and a half months. I was only eighteen then. I didn’t think it was strange later, when I agreed to marry him, but perhaps I had got used to him. I don’t know if you would think it a strange letter. The circumstances of the letter were that I had never thought of him like that. I admired him very much of course. One afternoon after a class he took me to tea and he talked. I thought his manner was rather strange, but then falling in love is strange. When I got his letter I didn’t know what to think, particularly as I began to be so happy and proud. And then later, when we agreed to marry, I forgot about thinking him strange, and even now I don’t know what to think. Please send me the letter back when you have read it. It is one of my most precious possessions.

Yours sincerely,

FELICITY WATKINS

Oh my God Felicity, I haven’t slept since I saw you—Yesterday?—I don’t know—I keep seeing your face—your hair is too bright for my eyes. It was your hair first—I always look for your head shining in the dark class—You are a light in a naughty world—yes and it is enough to look—touching too?—That would be too much joy—And yet if I can look touching could be too—for both of us?—How dare I think it—and yet yesterday with you I knew differently—you too—I didn’t sleep—I am old Felicity—thirty-five. You, eighteen? A baby! But girls have no age—they shine in dark corners—if you could—I keep thinking of you in a big forest somewhere with the sunlight coming down through branches and you and your bright shining head and you smiling at me—smiling—will you?—oh I don’t know if—I wonder if I will post this at all—it is one thing sitting here putting words on a paper and your thoughts rushing by fifty at least to a word—so what is the use of sending it if I can’t send the thoughts—one in fifty—so much diluted—is it worth your attention even?—I wonder—you could take the word for the—I love you. Yes, that is it, I know—you would never keep me a pig in your pen—no, I’m sure. She had bright yellow hair and blue eyes too, she must have had—but it is the soul that counts. Not like that dark one, black hair and white teeth and red lips—those are the colours for pig-keepers. And in war time too—The light and the dark of it. But the yellow-hair locked him in her pen and fed him husks. Later a fatted calf? But I don’t dare—Yes. Would you—I’ve never dared, I’ve been alone for fear of that. She died, and so could never lock me in her stye. Must I be afraid of you? Felicity Felicity Felicity Felicity—you have a name like bright sunlight to match your hair. If I see you smile tomorrow I’ll know. I love you. Felicity Felicity Felicity Felicity Felicity Felicity Felicity

DEAR DOCTOR Y,

I can’t say how distressed I am to hear that Charles Watkins is ill and in hospital in your care. Yes, of course I shall be only too glad to help in any way I can. As it happens I heard about his illness when I returned from Italy last night, and my wife telephoned Felicity Watkins.

No, I don’t think that Charles showed any unusual signs of stress or strain this year but he is not the sort of person one would take much notice of, if he did overshoot any marks, but I cannot, I am afraid, explain