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[[preprinted]] 14 [[/preprinted]] him from December until February. We are each other's only solace. More than that. Always I'll love him. He is the only thing permanent. My words or not what is in my mind. I can't transfer them to paper. That is impossible for me. I'm sailing on the Leviathan the 30th of the month for South hampton and Cherbourg. Probably I'll make several trips back and forth. Then you louse, I hope. Then back to New York in September and back to work at something - trying, trying. Called Geoff. Taking his books back. [[end page]] [[start page]] [[preprinted]] 15 [[/preprinted]] April 20. Miserable weather for April. I am still wearing my fur coat. The Opera season closed last Saturday, and the concerts are nearly over. John and I heard Raquel Miller Saturday evening. I talked so much to Bert about her last night, I feel at loss to say more. I have seen no one like her. Quite obviously, the two men next [[strikethrough]] s [[/strikethrough]] to us with their brief cases either did not recognize or recognizing did not idealize her marvelous simplicity. I wish I could hear her many times. Even her little mannerisms are so impressed on my mind that at times I suddenly see her taking the bit of tobacco from her lip that the cigaret [[sic]] has left. That was when she sang Fleur de Mal. The Spanish people in the second balcony went to exstacy [[sic]] during the Violettera as well. I set out for the Metropolitan Sunday afternoon, but never got there. I must see the American sculpture and my 'slaves' before I go. For I feel certain I shall leave soon. New Yorker job which lasted but a short time is hopeless. Today I had seven cents. Last night I didn't have that much. John had none. I went over to Bert's after John left. I lied so stupidly about not keeping the engagement Sunday, and he was so angry that I thought I might as well offer some excuse. I bummed the subway and got fare back from Bert. Bert for all his crust is rather lonely
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