I wonder whatever became of that girl in Dresden. Every time I think of her, she suggests pleasant thoughts--good beer, a fine band, Gemütlichkeit. I must have been in love with her--not much, of course, but just enough to make things pleasant. And not a single letter from her! I suppose she thinks I'm starving to death over here--or tuning pianos. Well, when I get back with the money there'll be a shock for her. A shock--but not a Pfennig!
