A still later entry:

"Two P.M.--I'm in my cabin all the time. I think that I shall go mad.
That sounds conventional, doesn't it--reminiscent of melodrama! I assure
you it's worse than real. I feel as if for years and years I've been
asleep, and now've wakened up into a nightmare. I _can_ write to you;
that's the one thing that gives me relief. Your kindness seems a shield
behind which I can crawl. I can't sleep; I can only--not think--no, it
isn't thinking I do--it's realizing--and everything is terrible. The
sunlight makes ripples on my cabin ceiling; they weave and part and
wrinkle. I try to fix my attention on them, and hypnotize myself into
lethargy. Sometimes I almost succeed, and then I begin realizing again.
And in the night I stare at the electric light till my eyes ache, and
try to numb my thoughts. Must my little girl know what I am? Can't that
be averted? I know it can't--I know, and yet I pray and
pray--I--_pray!"_

Another sheet, evidently torn from a pad: "The wireless is out of order;
they couldn't send my messages. You don't know the despair that has
taken hold of me. My mind feels white--that's the only way I can
describe it--cold and white--frozen, a blank. My body is that way, too.
I hold my hands to the light, and it doesn't seem as if there was even
the faintest red. They are the hands of a dead person--I wish they were!
But I must know--must know. We are due in Havana to-morrow. I shall take
the first boat out--to anywhere, where I can get a train, that's the
quickest. Oh, you, who have so often told me I must stop and think and
realize things! Did you know what it _was_ you wanted me to do? Have you
any idea what torture _is?_ You couldn't! I don't believe even Mahr
would have done this to me--if he had known; nobody could--nobody could.