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124
Thursday, May 3, 1928

for what it it is seem to be useless when I try to apply them.  Oh, I am glad for what this has been.  Glad — more than glad.  But I am truly, and genuinely sad that [[strikethrough]] this [[/strikethrough]] there is a "has been" in the sentence.  If it can endure six or eight months I know it will be worth something more than an incident.  What will the European trip do to it?  What will the West do with it?  What will Bob and I feel?  I am sad at his leaving.  I am sincere in what ever I call my feeling for him, sincerer than I have ever been in anything;  I am looking forward to his letters and to answering them;  I am anxious about September;  I wonder what this is — but it must be foolish to wonder, — I should be devoutly thankful for it — for what has been, for what is — — for what is going to be?

125
[[strikethrough]] Friday, May 4, 1928 [[/strikethrough]]
Monday, April 28 1930

I do miss Bob.  It is funny that one has an empty feeling at leaving people, books, places one likes.  It is funny how one wants to share little things with people.  Little things like the three bushes at school that are bursting into a ragged, white coat and that hide the place where the stone of the Library Building met the ground;  like the sun on the living room carpet to-day at tea-time;  like the softly purple lilacs in the large cream jug on the book-case; —.  I don't like Spring in the city.  It hasn't a fair chance.  Even in the park it is spoiled by couples sprawling over [[strikethrough]] into [[/strikethrough]] the grass.  I should be sorry for them, in love and longing for the country and not enough money or time with which to go.  But I am selfish and want to have Spring really in at least one place.  I was aching for a large piece of sky and a chance to see the whole sun.  I wanted to be alone, and to get over my lonliness.  I ached for a chance to find such aloneness —.  I must, I suppose, forget all this divine unrealness and Bob and get back into the routine of school;  but somehow I can't!  It's disgustingly cowardly of me to try to evade reality and duty and time, and horribly illogical.  I wonder if Bob has thought about me to-day, if he will to-morrow and to-morrow —.  Will he write to me?  Will this "peter out"?