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194

Lake Placid, September 6th
[[strikethrough]] Thursday, July 12, 1928 [[/strikethrough]]

I don't know about Bob and me.  It's so very queer.  I do know that we are terribly much in love with one another and that it has all been beautiful.  Last night, however, we both felt sad – and finally confessed to each other the reason.  We both love [[strikethrough]] each other [[/strikethrough]] one another so, that we want each other completely – and can't have each other.  That is sad, because what is going to happen?  Bob confessed to-night that were it five years hence, were I through college and he earning money, he would ask me to marry him – and I knew that I would say "Yes".  I knew that of all people Bob and I should be happy together – sharing joys and sorrows, fighting our problems, disagreeing for a while on the surface, but understanding underneath.  It's horribly sad that it must be five years –.  I can't be idealistic enough to really believe we can stay so in love for five years, although I do feel now that I can never love anyone as I love Bob... or anyone more than I love Bob.  Too, it is so difficult for us to know how to act.  We want each other – and it's impossible.  Still, if we could only show restraint and common-sense perhaps we can have a little physical relationship.  When one is really in love there is something in the physical which is the lovely chord at the end of a beautiful



195

Friday, July 13, 1928

sonata –;  the delicate, yet real, [[?after]] which completes the day –.  It is "nice" – it loses all the horrible cheapness of [[?re]] physical purely for [[strikethrough]] the [[/strikethrough]] its "thrilling" sake.  Yet, it is difficult to draw a line – so hard to be cold-blooded about it – almost impossible to see the thing as a whole and see if it will destroy the perfection we have thus far attained and which I, for one, want to keep for years and years –.