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
stupid wish to hurt _his_ feelings? _His_ only gift.
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