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136

Wednesday 28th 1933
[[strikethrough]]Tuesday, May 15, 1928[[/strikethrough]]

I feel terribly sad to-day. It is a combination of the depressing grey, a thyroid inoculation, and hearing that Bob is to be operated on for his kidney. It is very stupid of me to feel so blue.. I usually like grey weather, because it's a contrast to my spirit —  thyroid inoculation is certainly not the end of the world — and about Bob. It has been so perfect having him here again and bringing with him more of the "good hours". It has been just as comfortable and happy, and a proof that our friendship is going to last. Last evening, a beautifully definite evening, with clear stars, and a black sky, and only one cloud, angel-wing-like in its form, we sat on the wall at Riverside, looked at the Palisades, at the sky and stars, at ourselves - and we were satisfied and content and quiet — removed. I could have stayed there for ages and ages, absorbing the serene night and the calmness. We were in perfect harmony with the sky and stars and water, with one another, and with ourselves. And then we came back .... To-day I hear he is to be operated; and will be an architect. I'm glad of the latter — terribly glad, because I'm sure he will be successful. But I'm sorry about the operation. I wonder if I will see him lots — if he will get bored with me at the hospital as I was with Lincoln — I wonder if he will keep on liking me. It's stupid to think it will make any difference —  but —

137

Wednesday, May 26, 1928

I sort of feel now as if everything were grey — forever. I asked for depths — and here is one, and I suppose I must rise above it, or be glad of it. I should like to see Bob now. To talk with him, or to sit silently — our hearts in rhythm — to kiss him once or twice perhaps — and to know again a "good hour".

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