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look all around and up to the mountain ridges in front. They are high but flat mountains and their lines flow along the sky. Over all the square miles there is no-one in sight. Some sheep dotted here and there like white stones, and a solitary old horse on a green patch up the burn on my left. That’s all. Otherwise just space and the earth. I have the feeling I can listen a long way. I do. I look at the pool where I bathed. And the burn is still talking away; and the bubbles make themselves and float off.
    I stand some time in order to get used to my conquest. It’s nice to feel at home again, knowing nothing can come at you. I look with more confidence towards Farquhar’s crest. It’s very bare and the heather dark. My eyes fall to the birches in the gorge. I love birches. I begin to walk down the bank of the stream.
    I am a little nervous so that I am not in the least tired, indeed exhilarated if anything. If I stumble sometimes it’s because I keep my head too high. Everything is high and distant. The sun is shining and quiet. Then all at once it’s in me—the secret delight. It has come, like a whiff of honeysuckle or wild roses.
    Ran, Ran, don’t misunderstand me or you’ll break my heart. It’s not mystical. I could shake you because of that doubt in your eyes. You’re horrid. As if I could pretend at such a moment! Please do understand that I am trying to tell you of life, of something brighter than any eyes and lighter than laughter on its toes. The delicious bubbling fun of it. Why do young children race around; why do young women—I don’t know about young men—want to race with them? Don’t you see the awful thing that has happened to us, the awful curse on us? Don’t you see that I can hardly write two sentences without going all selfconscious and wanting to explain? It brings the tears to my eyes. It does. I am weeping like a fool. We have murdered spontaneity. That’s what we have done. The faces of analysts, everywhere, with bits of matter on slides, and bits of mind on slides, saying: That’s all it is. And we wonder about war and horror! About murderers … !
    That was a bad break! Even if you have been saved what I thought (where the dots are) but did not write. Right to the end of this letter—and I warn you it’s a dreadful end—I am now simply going to tell you what happened on this day’s outing.
    I came near the first of the birches. Some warblers were singing. I like trees, particularly small birches, because they bring back my childhood, and I was happy as a child. The path was narrow and soft to the feet and went winding on, some little way above the burn, which was now in a hurry. The trees rose above me and every now and then a small bird flashed and was gone. I was fascinated and quite forgot about the murder. I came to a point where I could see the falls, the solid pour-over of the water that goes white and then black in the swirls of the rock pool below. I must have been staring some time for when the man spoke to me I got a dreadful start.
    He was wearing a dark blue shirt and a light green tie. His clothes were a peppery brown. He had no hat. His hair, straight and dark brown, was smoothed back from a wide forehead. His eyes were a deep brown and looked at me with that extra attention which certain men have. It’s the kind of look that many women—perhaps all women—are immediately aware of. I refuse to comment. There was also a moustache. He was not noticeably tall. His bones were fine but I knew he could move instantly and was strong.
    That he was not a native was clear on the instant, apart from his tie. Good afternoon, he said, and smiled. I said good afternoon. I was not really afraid. I mean I never thought of the murder. But something in me told me to back away, to get home, and to do it with polite indifference as the surest way. Yet it was for a moment awfully difficult. We agreed it