My dear Couch,
I am still at Shere and still meaning to go I know not where. At present I think it can’t be Fowey, because I have some trivial business that sends me to London once a week. I often sit and look at Fowey in Bradshaw’s map, which means that I have a hankering that way. I hope you are really better now, and doing more important work than I am at.
I am writing plays to keep myself from thinking. I saw George Meredith the other day. He is better of a bad illness but more frail than when you were down. Have had some letters from Stevenson this summer. He can’t endure Tess and says Hardy will need to do two novels as good as the old ones before he forgives this one. He also (Dagont!) refers me to a case Dishart v. Dishart as following the marriage of Babbie and Gavin. I see that you people don’t know what love is. I want you to repeat this to Mrs Couch.
Yours ever, J. M. Barrie
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