September 6, 1943

My dearest darling sweetheart,

All I do all day long is dream, sleep, eat, and have enemas. Being a patient is really a very very lazy life. I’ve just finished supper—I ate so much, I’m miserable. Looking at your picture, darling, I see you have Clark Gable ears, but I’d like to kiss one right now—Hey, when are you going to give me that small one back—you were just supposed to look at it—not keep it. I really haven’t anything to say, but I’ll just babble on and tell you that I love you and am getting very desperate, honey. Darn this appendectomy. I peeked under the bandage and looked at the incision. It’s all healed—I’ll show it to you when I see you. The doctor won’t let me go home for twelve days—he said he knows me and I wouldn’t be careful enough—anyway he said, “You’re not going any place and it’ll do you good”—said I won’t be back with adhesives—I think I’d like to wring his neck.

I’m just wondering, sweetheart, when you’ll get this letter. I hope it doesn’t take four days like yours does.

Honey, remember when you used to tell me that I had enough loving to last me a life time?—well I haven’t ‘cause I wish you were home now and do you know what I would do?—I would wear you to a frazzle.

The water in the tap is dripping—very annoying.

This pen isn’t mine and it writes awful.

I love you, you big lug, always.

All my love & kisses,

L. Rose

P.S. Excuse writing.

P.P.S. Got [my] own pen back.