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118 Friday, April 27, 1938 Thinks is necessary, that which one thinks he owes to life and life owes to him - but the point the inevitable (at least so far) stumbling block, is to find just what these things are .... I wonder if I shall find [[strikethrough]] then [[/strikethrough]] what they are before it is too late to accomplish them - any of them. I wonder if when I die I will have had an ideal, and if I will have lived up to it. I wonder then what I shall think of all this nonsense.... (See pages 59 - 64) 119 [[strikethrough]] Saturday, April 28, 1928 [[/strikethrough]] Sunday April 20, 1930 I wish I could really express my feelings about Bob, about the relationship we have had, because these feelings and this relationship are the most genuine, the happiest emotions and contact I have ever experienced. It's been "an even tempo, because we've kept it on one. Quite easily it could have been a crescendo. It's been comfortable and happy" Late afternoons. The misty evening. The glorious joy of a day like Tuesday, blue, blue sky and not too brazen sun, the cherry trees in bloom. The supper at Longchamps, perfect in design; orange tomato juice and orange lined plates; brown coffee and the brown suit and the golden brown coffee-pot; yellow lemon and hair; blue plates with white and checkered blouse; the comfortableness of an understanding, deep and sincere, uncheapened by pretendings or too highly tuned emotions. Words, - - and smiles and laughs and double-entendres. The happiness and carefreeness of late afternoon, blue-gray ones and golden rayed ones. Tea on the unsteady green table. Not too much cream for him; thin slices of lemon for me. Two pieces? Only one for me. The left and right corners of the sofa. Photographs and Europe. Thousands of little episodes — all the same value of happiness, sincereness. It doesn't need a frame for retrospect; it is framed, with all the security of [[strikethrough]] being [[/strikethrough]] gladness. It was pure and simple and alive. Bob is a rather wonderful person.