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66 bcdfghjhlmnpqrstw Tuesday, March 6, 1928 We wondered then just what the years would bring to us. We wondered how [[strikethrough]] we both [[strikethrough]] these days would [[/strikethrough]] feel [[/strikethrough]] seem In half a year; we wondered what this thing that we had felt could be; and if a dream Can ever last — or stay the same re-dreamed. We clung to all the little things we'd known — The mist of night; and how the sun's rays streamed Into the room; we wondered if, alone, We should so love and so enjoy more things like these. [[strikethrough]] [[?B]] [[?suffered]] [[/strikethrough]] Cold sky-lines of New York; [[strikethrough]] the season of year [[/strikethrough]] golds twilight were; Deep, [[?arled]] shells on sand; [[strikethrough]] [[?the plays under thousand]] [[strikethrough]] are such things seen Alone, [[strikethrough]] are [[/strikethrough]] we thought not one the same as those ones sees When there are two, [[strikethrough]] we thought [[/strikethrough]]. Then you were 24, [[strikethrough]] my dear [[/strikethrough]] And [[strikethrough]] in [[/strikethrough]] I, who wonders what you're doing now, sixteen. 67 Wednesday, March 7, 1928 Pieratte sat high on a hill and clasped her knees to-gether with her hands and laughed into the sky and smiled down at the sea. It was a high hill, somewhere. It was the sort of hill that really makes one feel [[strikethrough]] for [[/strikethrough]] one loves "high places". The sky seamed even farther away up here, than down on the sand. And bluer. Blue, green-like, saphire, ameythist - how could she tell? All she knew was that out beyond where the sky met the sea there were two shades of this [[strikethrough]] [[?]] [[/strikethrough]] quiet blue. Pieratte had come up here so that she could be alone and so looz her lonliness. She smiled as she thought of that. Really she was not alone; she felt almost immortal, infinite; she was part of all this quiet of blues and [[strikethrough]] seas [[/strikethrough]] sun; she was one with the coolness of the grass; one with the symetry of the tiny rounded tan pebble near her; she breathed in rhythym with the heart-beat of the whole world. No, this was not being alone as she had though she would be, but she [[strikethrough]] was [[/strikethrough]] had found the aloneness which made the lonliness almost disappear. Pieratte liked to come up here when she felt sad. How often she had come for that reason. And always at the end of something. It was almost like the neatly printed "Finis" at the end of a story until she left the hill—! It was like a dark, cool cave as a retreat from the [[strikethrough]] [[?]] [[/strikethrough]] heat, until one left the cave. But always an end. It was always the end of things that made her sad, made her feel this emptiness, appeased only by the stark, but delicately softened, reality of sun and grass. This high place removed her from the incident,
