arid are mortal, all help is inhumane. I wonder any feeling other than despair. Nothing can be agreed but the deep night that I will bury my shame. They cry my faults, if I can mourn yet, because since yesterday I have not shed a tear. My broken heart can not pour more.
Farewell, madam, you do not answer anything. In this letter I have taken the oath cruel receiving none.
Paris, November 17, 1917 ...