stop--begin again and stop again, horrified at the quantity of clothes
I've brought. It would have been more sensible to send them to one of
our beloved "charity sales." They are of no use or pleasure now. Black
merino and a white woollen shawl--what more do I want here?

God knows how I wish at the present moment I were back in the Old Market
Place, even if I only had Richard's society to bore me.

What am I doing here? What do I want here? To cry, without having to
give an account of one's tears to anyone?

Of course, all this is only the result of the rain. I was longing to be
here. It was not a mere hysterical whim. No, no....

It was my own wish to bury myself here.

* * * * *

Yesterday I was all nerves. To-day I feel as fresh and lively as a
cricket.

We have been hanging the pictures, and made thirty-six superfluous holes
in the new walls. There is no way of concealing them. (I must write to
Richard to have my engravings framed.) It would be stretching a point to
say we are skilled picture-hangers; we were nearly as awkward as men
when they try to hook a woman's dress for her. But the pictures were
hung somehow, and look rather nice now they are up.

But why on earth did I give Torp my sketch of "A Villa by the Sea" to
hang in her kitchen? Was I afraid to have it near me? Or was it some