The Last Love Letter
Act I — The Café She sat in the corner. A notebook in front of her. I walked over. "What are you writing?" "Not important things," she said. "I write not important things too," I said. "But writing them is important." She looked at me. Then she smiled. I still remember that smile. Her name was Clare Windsor. Twenty-six. British nurse. She had been at the front in France, caring for wounded...
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