Tuesday.
Dearest,
I feel certain that I am going mad again. I feel we can't go through
another of those terrible times. And I shan't recover this time. I begin
to hear voices, and I can't concentrate. So I am doing what seems the
best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You
have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don't think two
people could have been happier till this terrible disease came. I can't
fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me
you could work. And you will I know. You see I can't even write this
properly. I can't read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of
my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly
good. I want to say that — everybody knows it. If anybody could have
saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the
certainty of your goodness. I can't go on spoiling your life any longer.
I don't think two people could have been happier than we have been.
V.
