(xx) Dottie's Letter from Chuck

Well, sir, it's about the middle of the morning as we end of a small house halfway up in the next block now. And here in the kitchen we find Mrs. Victor Cook and Mr. Fletcher Rush.

Sade is seated beside the sink with a pan in her lap peeling apples, while Uncle Fletcher stands near the gas stove, removing his overcoat. Listen. Craziest tap, what winter I ever come across. Is it just terrible cold out?

Five or six above. And yesterday it was 30 of us. That's what I say. Crazy lame brain winner. No mistake. Oh well, and be spring before long. Oh hang my numb skull overcoach you on the knit with door knob.

All right. Spotty upstairs. You see? Daddy, young coupleture. Daddy. Well, it's all one. No, it's not. I don't think it fits very well. You call her spotty. Uh-huh. She upstairs taking a lap. In the middle of the morning? No.

You're still phrased about she's out door taking a walk. Daddy's in the living room, Uncle Fletcher. Oh. She got a letter from her husband this morning. I thought probably she'd like to be alone while she read it, so I sent her in there by herself.

Oh, cool. I know if I was away from home on a visit and a letter from my family come, I'd like to look at it in private. Sure. How long she's gonna stay? Why, uh, she hasn't said for sure.

But here a week though. Uncle Fletcher, I don't believe you like daddy. She's alright. She's one of my dearest friends. Oh, I'm fine. Chuck must have had something funny in his letter. No. Chuck had something funny in his letter daddy.