flown?

The time is gone by. Life is over.

I am getting used to sitting here and stitching at my seam. My work does
not amount to much, but the mechanical movement brings a kind of
restfulness.

I find I am getting rather capricious. Between meals I ring two or three
times a day for tea--like a convalescent trying a fattening cure. Jeanne
attends to my hair with indefatigable care. Without her, should I ever
trouble to do it at all?

What can any human being want more than this peace and silence?

* * * * *

If I could only lose this sense of being empty-handed, all would be
well. Yesterday I went down to the seashore and gathered little pebbles.
I carried them away and amused myself by taking them up in handfuls.
During the night I felt impelled to get up and fetch them, and this
morning I awoke with a round stone in each hand.

Hysteria takes strange forms. But who knows what is the real ground of
hysteria? I used to think it was the special malady of the unmated
woman; but, in later years, I have known many who had had a full share
of the passional life, legitimate and otherwise, and yet still suffered
from hysteria.

* * * * *