Robin — December 31, 1908

December 31, 1908

Kelowna, B. C.

My dearest Kathleen,

I wrote to you last night and told you everything.  Can you forgive me all that or am I expecting too much?  You are perfectly justified in having nothing more to do with me, but I somehow think you will forgive me.  You love as every man wants to be loved (but I don’t think many are), without rhyme or reason, the one kind I imagine to be worth having.  It can’t be possible that I have thrown that away.  If a man only knew that someday someone would care for him like that, he would never give way to anything that would one day discredit him in her eyes.

Kathleen, my dear, I am so sorry.  There is no more I can say and however much I wrote I couldn’t tell you all I feel.  Whatever your answer is, even if you give me up, you may be sure of this, that I shall never do such things again.

Kathleen, I love you and have always loved you.  Every thought and every hope is all wrapped up in you.  Can you still love and trust me as you did?  Think very carefully, dear, don’t let my letters influence you at all unless you are quite sure; but if you think you can still love me and have not lost faith in me, don’t let anything else come between us.  I have told you all the truth, Kathleen, I swear it.  Don’t give me up, darling.  How am I to get along without you all the time with nothing but a fearful longing to take your place?

I am waiting for an answer.  You know, I am afraid, by now how hard it is to wait for an answer.

With all my love, darling,



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