Thanks ever so much for the lovely birthday present.  It suits me splendid.  Everyone says I am quite the belle in my new tam.  I got mummy’s Iovely box of creams and am writing.  They are lovely.  I am getting on swimming in the photo business now.  Mr Coghlan took one of me and Mrs. Will send when developed.  We did great biz yesterday.  Fair day and all the beef to the heels were in.  We are going to lough Owel on Monday with a few friends to make a scrap picnic.  Give my love to mummy and to yourself a big kiss and thanks.  I hear them at the piano downstairs.  There is to be a concert in the Greville Arms on Saturday.  There is a young student comes here some evenings named Bannon his cousins or something are big swells and he sings Boylan’s (I was on the pop of writing Blazes Boylan’s) song about those seaside girls.  Tell him silly Milly sends my best respects.  I must now close with fondest love

Your fond daughter, Milly.

P. S. Excuse bad writing am in hurry.  Byby.  M.

Fifteen yesterday.  Curious, fifteenth of the month too.  Her first birthday away from home.  Separation.  Remember the summer morning she was born, running to knock up Mrs Thornton in Denzille street.  Jolly old woman.  Lot of babies she must have helped into the world.  She knew from the first poor little Rudy wouldn’t live.  Well, God is good, sir.  She knew at once.  He would be eleven now if he had lived.

His vacant face stared pityingly at the postscript.  Excuse bad writing.  Hurry.  Piano downstairs.  Coming out of her shell.  Row with her in the XL Cafe about the bracelet.  Wouldn’t eat her cakes or speak or look.  Saucebox.  He sopped other dies of bread in the gravy and ate piece after piece of kidney.  Twelve and six a week.  Not much.  Still, she might do worse.  Music hall stage.  Young student.  He drank a draught of cooler tea to wash down his meal.  Then he read the letter again:  twice.

O, well:  she knows how to mind herself.  But if not?  No, nothing has happened.  Of course it might.  Wait in any case till it does.  A wild piece of goods.  Her slim legs running up the staircase.  Destiny.  Ripening now.

Vain:  very.

He smiled with troubled affection at the kitchen window.  Day I caught her in the street pinching her cheeks to make them red.  Anemic a little.  Was given milk too long.  On the Erin’s king that day round the Kish.  Damned old tub pitching about.  Not a bit funky.  Her pale blue scarf loose in the wind with her hair.

    All dimpled cheeks and curls,
    your head it simply swirls.

Seaside girls.  Torn envelope.  Hands stuck in his trousers’ pockets, jarvey off for the day, singing.  Friend of the family.  Swurls, he says.  Pier with lamps, summer evening, band,

    Those girls, those girls,
    those lovely seaside girls.