Wednesday morning.
I cried my eyes out last night and lay awake for hours thinking about my unhappy life. All my pride and hopes have come to this—an irresponsible mind. It makes no difference whether the cause is shell shock or something else, the fact remains that my mind does not work properly—I do things without knowing or remembering what I do. I am sure I cannot live long—what have I to live for? I have made a will leaving my little fortune to Chris—he will never know how much I care for him—and my jewelry to Seraphine, except my silly thumb ring, which is for Roberta Vallis. She loves it.
This afternoon They came again. They never were so bad. I was walking down Fifth Avenue and, as I reached the cathedral, I thought I would go in and say my prayers. I love the soft lights and the smell of incense, but just at the door They began insulting me.
“Little fool! Little fool! She is going to say her prayers. Ha, ha!” They laughed.
I knelt down and breathed an old benediction, shutting my ears against the Voices:
“The peace of God which passeth all understanding—”
“Fauvette! Fauvette!” They mocked me.
“Keep your hearts and minds in the knowledge and love of God—”
“She's a pretty little devil. I like her mouth.”
“And of his son, Jesus Christ our Lord—”