_Dear Kate_:
I got your letter and I know how you feel. If Jim was no good, he was
your husband and you cared for him, and you were a mighty good wife,
too. I am sorry if I said things that hurt you about him, but oh, Kate,
I am glad for one thing, that is, you begin to see that crookedness
don't pay, whether it is right or whether it is wrong, it just _don't
pay_. Look at Jim and his crowd. He is dead and five of his friends are
in prison, and most of the rest of them are afraid to lift their heads
for fear they will see a cop a watching them. I am so glad you see it
that way now, and I like to hear you say you have had enough of prison.
You will never see one again, Kate, except to admire the architecture
from the outside.
You are right about one thing. You can brace up in New York just as
well as outside of it. There is no reason in the world why you should
leave this little old berg. We will get up in the Bronx somewhere in a
little flat like Charlie Haines', and you won't never need to see the
old crowd. Something will turn up some way for you to do, and anyway, I
can make enough to keep us three. Why, Kate, I would dance my legs off
to have you and Billy with me, and you a playing the game straight. So
cheer up, old lady, everything is fine and dandy, and you are going to
be the happiest woman one of these days in the buzum of your family.
Yours,
_Nan_.