Dear Mr. Wilder:

This is presumption on my part but having run into the
most innocently humerous sentence in Martin Chuzzlewit
I have simply got to tell you of it. Why you?

Because you are the only person whose address I know
who may reasonably be expected to get a kick out of
it, though you may not, of course. I never read
anything of yours, so I wouldn't know. I got your
address from the phone book and you will excuse it if
I don't sign my name. Here it is (don't mind the
part in parentheses which simply upholds Mr. Dickens'
good faith):

"When she spoke, Tom held his breath, so eagerly he listened; when she sang, he sat like one entranced.) She touched his organ and from that bright epoch even it, the old companion of his happiest hours, incapable as he had thought of elevation, began a new and deified existence."

Bk. 1, ch. XXIV