It's the middle of the night now; I've been awake for hours
thinking what a Worm I am--what a Thousand-legged Worm--
and that's the worst I can say! I've closed the door very softly
into the study so as not to wake Julia and Sallie, and am sitting
up in bed writing to you on paper torn out of my history note-book.

I just wanted to tell you that I am sorry I was so impolite
about your cheque. I know you meant it kindly, and I think you're
an old dear to take so much trouble for such a silly thing as a hat.
I ought to have returned it very much more graciously.

But in any case, I had to return it. It's different with me than
with other girls. They can take things naturally from people.
They have fathers and brothers and aunts and uncles; but I can't
be on any such relations with any one. I like to pretend that you
belong to me, just to play with the idea, but of course I know you
don't. I'm alone, really--with my back to the wall fighting the world--
and I get sort of gaspy when I think about it. I put it out of my mind,
and keep on pretending; but don't you see, Daddy? I can't accept
any more money than I have to, because some day I shall be wanting
to pay it back, and even as great an author as I intend to be won't
be able to face a PERFECTLY TREMENDOUS debt.

I'd love pretty hats and things, but I mustn't mortgage the future
to pay for them.

You'll forgive me, won't you, for being so rude? I have an awful
habit of writing impulsively when I first think things, and then
posting the letter beyond recall. But if I sometimes seem thoughtless