She returned home and wrote:
Dear Abe,
I’ve felt awful all day about this morning’s note, in which I fear I spoke with too great a casualness about your work. I hope you think little enough of me to disregard that note entirely or else to chalk it up to a fit of presumption on my part, which was only a fit, and not how I truly feel. I’m very sincerely sorry for any unintended disrespect I might have shown to you or your work, — Robin
Robin was standing; these days she always stood when she wrote letters. The paper she had positioned on the slightly curving cover of her closed record player (which was how she would generally listen to music) and the pen was of the bic brand, which she had seen directly on entering her home, around 9 PM, by a leg of the sofa. She tended to stand when she wrote because she felt it imparted to her writing a greater sense of urgency than it otherwise would, and indeed this letter seemed to express her thought more clearly than those she had made earlier at her desk. She felt confident in her response at last, and, with a sense of relief, she now typed it up, striking out only the word ‘unintended’.
.i`` * ^ / . . . . . ` `~ 
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