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[undated, circa summer? 1917?]

Dear Waldo - The days continue to drift away up here and I do not think much of writing. The novel [Immaturity?] is growing in my mind and I will perhaps write it this fall. If it falls out that there comes into my mind a form for the article I will write it but you would be foolish to expect it for the September number.

    Some day I will tell you the story of my several long talks with