[Obviously, all of these are several hours apart, usually five or six, almost clockwork.]
Most of my energy these days seems to be going toward staying awake, rather than falling asleep. I didn't mean to keep you up, however, with my opinion, even if I refuse to retract it. That story is about love, and how it tears things down that are made to keep people up. Hulga's pride wasn't pretty, and it certainly did her intelligence no favors, but it was the only thing keeping her going. Losing it was a lot worse than losing faith.
I can pretend to have no opinions about Wharton, who I think wrote the work you mentioned. I read The House of Mirth in college, but it was too long ago for me to remember very much more than being impressed with the prose. You give your opinion decidedly, as Austen says, so feel free to continue to do so.
I just meant that people confuse me, and they've been doing it a lot lately, and I'll blame them for my lack of actual work, because if anyone should know people, writers should, and I don't, so there's nothing to show. No setting, either, just a mishmash. There's no final copy and no makeshift copy. I detect a hint of entrapment in your question about your sex. Am I reassured? Hardly. Am I further disturbed? No again. Your sex doesn't have anything to do with your success as a copywriter or your ability to nag creativity out of me.
For God's sake, stop calling me Mr. Webster, as if I am my father. I'll call you Claire and pretend you are not a bloodhound on the scent for something that doesn't exist.
D.B.W.
P.S. Over sixty, with a squint, gray streaks from the temples, talks over her nose, owns too many cats.
P.P.S. Re: your mother. Because of the divorce? - D.