A woman is writing a letter. Let’s watch her. She is an old woman, white-haired, strict as a stick in her sitting, her spine in exact parallel to the untouched back of her chair, but don’t be fooled. This is a stance of schooling, of breeding, of character, not of arthritic age. She is not arthritic, and even if she was. She sits, as it seems, without weariness, without weight. And if her hair is admirable, now, for its purity, only a certain sort of woman, she would have told you, suffering its stages and changes, sunshine to honey to…