Dexter, I love you so much. So, so much, and I probably always will. I just don't like you anymore. I'm sorry.

Be good. Do something good.

Call me sentimental, but there's no-one in the world that I'd like to see get dysentery more than you

We're not ourselves, are we? I'm certainly not myself, not anymore. And you're not either. You don't seem yourself. Not as I remember you.

Letters, like compilation tapes, were really vehicles for unexpressed emotions and she was clearly putting far too much time and energy into them.

I worry sometimes that I'm a bit moralistic; always writing about men who are learning to grow up, not be so self-absorbed, selfish or badly behaved. I wonder if that's dull and liberal and wimpy? I should probably write something that celebrates wickedness.

Everything was fine, and she had the rare, new sensation of being exactly where she wanted to be.