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           FinallyastheslovenlylightofalateLondondawnseepedthroughthewindowsshesatdownatherdesk,feelingthecold,hearingthedistantgrowloftraffic,smellingthedamp,tastingthesourness.SuddenlytheideaofDroghedaseemedwonderful.Sweetpureair,anaturallybrokensilence.Peace.

           Shepickeduponeofherblackfelt-tippedpensandbeganalettertohermother,hertearsdryingasshewrote.

           IjusthopeyouunderstandwhyIhaven’tbeenhomesinceDanedied[shesaid],butnomatterwhatyouthinkaboutthat,Iknowyou’llbepleasedtohearthatI’mgoingtorectifymyomissionpermanently.

           Yes,that’sright.I’mcominghomeforgood,Mum.Youwereright—thetimehascomewhenIlongforDrogheda.I’vehadmyflutter,andI’vediscovereditdoesn’tmeananythingtomeatall.What’sinitforme,trailingaroundastagefortherestofmylife?Andwhatelseistherehereformeasidefromthestage?Iwantsomethingsafe,permanent,enduring,soI’mcominghometoDrogheda,whichisallthosethings.Nomoreemptydreams.Whoknows?MaybeI’llmarryBoyKingifhestillwantsme,finallydosomethingworthwhilewithmylife,likehavingatribeoflittleNorthwestplainsmen.I’mtired,Mum,sotiredIdon’tknowwhatI’msaying,andIwishIhadthepowertowritewhatI’mfeeling.

           Well,I’llstrugglewithitanothertime.LadyMacbethisoverandIhadn’tdecidedwhattodowiththecomingseasonyet,soIwon’tinconvenienceanyonebydecidingtobowoutofacting.Londonisteemingwithactresses.