Dearest Miss M.

In a very chilly room, with chilly fingers, I wonder about where we could be off to.

Just having had a book thrown at my head (Idiots First by Bernard Malamud), I am led to ponder the role of literature in my life. Why have books always (if usually figuratively) thrown themselves at my head?

I would like a response to this question on my desk by tomorrow morning.

Yours,

Miss Dr. A.W.