What I didn’t write to Margot, but what I’ll confess to you, dear Kitty, is that I’ve been dreaming of Peter a great deal.
The night before last I dreamed I was skating right here in our living room with that little boy from the Apollo ice-skating rink;
he was with his sister, the girl with the spindly legs who always wore the same blue dress.
I introduced myself, overdoing it a bit, and asked him his name.
It was Peter. In my dream I wondered just how many Peters I actually knew!
Then I dreamed we were standing in Peter’s room, facing each other beside the stairs.
I said something to him; he gave me a kiss, but replied that he didn’t love me all that much and that I shouldn’t flirt.
In a desperate and pleading voice I said, ‘I’m not flirting, Peter!’
When I woke up, I was glad Peter hasn’t said it after all.
Last night I dreamed we were kissing each other, but Peter’s cheeks were very disappointing: they weren’t as soft as they looked.
They were more like Father’s cheeks -- the cheeks of a man who already shaves.”
FRIDAY, MARCH 10, 1944
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