He wrote that letter over and over mentally as he tossed on his bunk in
the dark, changing phrases and whole sentences. Perhaps it would be
better to say something about "her officer friends" and make it very
clear to her that he understood his own distant position with her. Then
suddenly he kicked the big blue blanket off and sat up with a deep sigh.
What a fool he was. He could not write another letter. The letter was
gone, and as it was written he must abide by it. He could not get it back
or unwrite it much as he wished it. There was no excuse, or way to make
it possible to write and refuse those sweaters and things, was there?
He sat staring into the darkness while the man in the next bunk roused to
toss back his blanket which had fallen superfluously across his face, and
to mutter some sleepy imprecations. But Cameron was off on the
composition of another letter: