I pressed my face to the glass at the top.
Molly pressed her face to the glass at the bottom: to avoid glare, she said. We read it together, guessing at the pretty scrawl. John Keats to Fanny Brawne:
My dearest girl–
I wish you could invent some means to make me at all happy without you.
It went on, of course: first about a trip to Italy that he was reticent to take alone, then about her “back-biting” friends, and on and on about separation. We stood in the stoney hall, decorated brightly for Christmas, and read aloud to each other–my friend and I–a love letter.