Totally delighted tonight because I went to the library this afternoon and gave myself permission to hit the "Friends of the Library" sale area. They had an old hardback copy of Dorothy Parker's short story collection "Here Lies," and two of the volumes I didn't already have of "The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror." And other stuff, too, but the kicker was a slim little art-book copy that looked like it'd been printed in the twenties or thereabouts of...get this..."The Love Letters of Henry VIII." I already read it, and Mark's reading it now. There's an amazing letter at the end, the last Anne Boleyn wrote to Henry, that's just wrenching...she's begging for her life and the life of her friends, but she can't seem to suppress her anger at the way she's been used. And the way she maybe guesses she will be treated in the monkey-trial being set up against her. Oh! Shiver! Shudder! I don't know why I've always loved Tudor history...I'll add to my currently totally empty "Writings" page a sonnet I wrote about Anne.