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222
Thursday, August  9, 1928

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[[strikethrough]] Friday, August 10, 1928 [[/strikethrough]]
May 15th, 1933

It was a lovely Spring day, rich with sun and full green leaves.  It was hot, but not with the heavy heat of summer, and the sky above was blue and high.  I met him this time with many things to say.  For five days I'd planned them — how I should say that I was sorry there was so little time left, how he had made the year more happy, how much I liked him.  But then he came, and we talked superficially of Mann and Proust and Modern Art, and Japanese scroll paintings, and we laughed at buildings and it was happy and gay and easy, but oh, so impersonal.  I'm not quite mature enough to accept the fullness of this sort of relationship.  I'm too concerned with "me" to feel it is complete.  It's not that I particularly want to kiss him, except that that seems natural, but I do want to feel that I am somewhat important to him, that he thinks of me between teas and wants to be with me more often than is possible.  And I refuse to face the reality that he doesn't care very much.  He likes me, and he likes to be with me — but how much farther does it go?  I am sincerely fond of him, but there is something strange that is a barrier and keeps us from saying what I want to.  I wonder if he feels that, too.  College is nearly over — less than a month until I leave for good, and then what?  This afternoon was ever so

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