oven.

Goodnight,
MARIANNE.

September 21.

Most Precious Lorna:

I am excited--excited--from the bottom lift on my French heels to the
top hair on my golden puffs.

Now who would have thought that the "Fate Sisters" would discover me way
out here and sit on the corner of Minnesota and 12th spinning their
breakable yarn.

Well--well--yesterday the one with the weary look and the crooked nose,
got a knot in her twine and this is how it happened. I was crossing this
Minnie-something street, when a shrill siren and the cannonade of a
powerful exhaust warned me to stay my tootsies. I wasn't looking for a
big white aseptic machine out here or any other kind, so the blooming
thing crashed into us and rather than have Bunky hurt, I ran the risk
(not quite, but nearly) of losing my life, but not until I had assured
myself that the man at the wheel was exotic to this soil.

Zip-bang-gasoline-smoke! and I was fished out, laid tenderly on the back
seat and rushed to a druggery. I allowed the dramatic spirits of
pneumonia to be forced down my throat by his manicured hands and somehow
I couldn't find the courage to take my head away from his shoulder--it
was such a comfy, tailored Fifth Avenue shoulder. You know my
reputation--30 years in a circus and never lost a spangle.

What is it that the Christian Scientists have on their souvenir spoons:
"There is no life in matter?"--well old girl I can sign a testimonial to
the opposite. Poor little Bunky added one more knot to his tail during
the mix-up, but as every knot is worth twenty-four dollars on a French
bull pup's tail, I don't mind this acquisition.

I was asked the other day if Bunk was a Pomeranian and I said, "No, a
French bull pup." The woman answered, "That's the same thing, isn't it?"

Finally with a little home-made sob I opened my eyes and asked the same
question that Eve put to Adam the morning after God had presented him
with that poisonous bon-bon. "Where am I?" and it's none of your
inquisitive business what he answered. The white auto will call tonight
to see of I'm still living and meantime I have ordered fifty yards of
white dabby stuff from "Fantles" to keep busy on. No--not a trousseau--I
shall never--never marry again--I'm too full of experience.

I told the white auto that I had been hemmed in so long that I did not
know how to act in decent s