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Conger Reynolds correspondence, 1917

1917-10-06 Conger Reynolds to Daphne Goodenough Page 2

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is it, I wonder, that makes the most melancholy of them, like the wail of Oriental music, so satisfying to emotion and imagination? Canst tell me? But, never mind. I don't know why I'm starting to write to you on this odd topic. Perhaps you too are child of fancy and will understand. My surroundings are anything but suggestive of a bungalow on the Ganges. I am all alone in a big barn of a room, three flights up in a pile of brick. I survey ten white bedsteads all bare but three, six steel lockers, a pudgy iron stove on a square of tin, and the disordered array of uniforms, bathrobes, and shoes my fellow officers have left in taking flight for the evening. I could with right be lonely, but I am not. I am so "fed up" on entertainment, that even this rough makeshift of a home looks cozy and comfortable. This lolling
 
World War I Diaries and Letters