Baghdad. March 16. Darling Mother. You write me the most wonderful letters. Yes, indeed I feel it's all incredible. I can scarcely understand that I shall not see him again. For though I hadn't seen him for so long, he was always there and I know I should pick up being brother and sister again just where we left it. I should so much have liked to see him with his wife and children - it would have been such a joy.
It must be a great comfort being able to talk to her; though she is so different in some ways, love makes people the same. And after all he was different too and it didn't matter.

And now I can't realize you having left Rounton. I hate the thought of it and I hate it so much for you and Father, dearest. All the going over of past things and sorting them out must have been so bad at this moment. I hope you are in London now.

I'm going to write to Father about my expedition to Ur. I was to have gone to Kish this week but Professor came up to Baghdad yesterday in what he considered to be a condition near to extremis. It isn't at all - he is fearfully fussy about his health - but I rather hope he will accept the suggestion I am making to him that we should bring all the things to Baghdad and divide them here. Kish is rather a dreary place and archaeological expeditions aren't what they were when I made them with J.M [Wilson]. Also they are much more trouble to me, for J.M. was so capable and made all the arrangements, and had a car to take me down to Kish, and now I have to do everything myself, for Lionel is so vague and indecisive. I'm very fond of him as a person to talk to but when it comes to thinking about boxes and straw or cotton wool to pack with he isn't much good, poor dear.

Yes, isn't it interesting about decoration - à propos of what you say about pots. The wonderful thing is that decoration begins so early, almost at once, in fact. I suppose they had plenty of time, those old ones, and they did things to amuse themselves. Painted pots are immensely early, for instance, and you would be surprised to see what a mass of little odds and ends they carefully made, charms and things, when they hadn't anything else to do, as I say. Only I do always wish they hadn't made so many copper pins. I can't throw the horrible things away but when I get into my new Museum I shall stuff them into drawers by the hundred. Your very loving daughter Gertrude