During the first three days, I finished turning my old diary into this narrative form; it only required a chapter or so to bring it down to date.

The rest of the week I took up in writing letters to my wife.

It was always my habit to write to Sandy every day, whenever we were separate, and now I kept up the habit for love of it, and of her, though I couldn't do anything with the letters, of course, after I had written them.
But it put in the time, you see, and was almost like talking; it was almost as if I was saying, "Sandy, if you and Hello-Central were here in the cave, instead of only your photographs, what good times we could have!" And then, you know, I could imagine the baby goo-gooing something out in reply, with its fists in its mouth and itself stretched across its mother's lap on its back, and she a-laughing and admiring and worshipping, and now and then tickling under the baby's chin to set it cackling, and then maybe throwing in a word of answer to me herself--and so on and so on -- well, don't you know, I could sit there in the cave with my pen, and keep it up, that way, by the hour with them.

Why, it was almost like having us all together again.
I had spies out every night, of course, to get news.

Every report made things look more and more impressive.