go for a walk. But to-day it has been raining all day. Such a bore. I
forgot to bring my paint-box and I'm not allowed to read all day. Mother
says, if you gobble all your books up now you'll have nothing left to
read. That's quite true, but I can't even go and swing.

Afternoon. I must write some more. I've had a frightful row with Dora.
She says I've been fiddling with her things. It's all because she's so
untidy. As if _her_ things could interest me. Yesterday she left her
letter to Erika lying about on the table, and all I read was: He's as
handsome as a Greek god. I don't know who "he" was for she came in at
that moment. It's probably Krail Rudi, with whom she is everlastingly
playing tennis and carries on like anything. As for handsome--well,
there's no accounting for tastes.

July 26th. It's a good thing I brought my dolls' portmanteau. Mother
said: You'll be glad to have it on rainy days. Of course I'm much too
old to play with dolls, but even though I'm 11 I can make dolls'
clothes still. One learns something while one is doing it, and when I've
finished something I do enjoy it so. Mother cut me out some things and I
was tacking them together. Then Dora came into the room and said Hullo,
the child is sewing things for her dolls. What cheek, as if she had
never played with dolls. Besides, I don't really play with dolls any
longer. When she sat down beside me I sewed so vigorously that I made a
great scratch on her hand, and said: Oh, I'm so sorry, but you came too
close. I hope she'll know why I really did it. Of course she'll go and
sneak to Mother. Let her. What right has she to call me child. She's got
a fine red scratch anyhow, and on her right hand where everyone can see.

July 27th. There's such a lot of fruit here. I eat raspberries and
gooseberries all day and Mother says that is why I have no appetite for