Dearest Anna:

I have finished it at last. Tomorrow I will search for a publisher brave enough to print a book with my name on it. There will be many difficulties, but I am glad to be done with it.

I have dedicated it to you. The publisher (usually a clean-shaven chap with round glasses and a condescending air) will peer at me from behind the manuscript and ask me, gently and tolerantly, who on earth is this woman? Or perhaps, being courteous, he will only ask me silently, in a nasty little sidelong glance, the privilege of snakes. He will not know that the woman is my co-author --- that parts of the book have her in it, or, to be more precise: that there is her in every part of it. You may wonder at this, but think: if every book that a writer writes is representative of his mind, and his mind is the sum of all experiences he has ever encountered in life, does not the book he write bear the print of another mind closely enmeshed with his? I am many other people, but the greatest part is you.

As Always,
A.E.

P.S. Send my regards to Andrew. I have plans for a new book already, and may dedicate it to him.