God knows how I wish at the present moment I were back in the Old Market Place, even if I only had Richard's society to bore me.
What am I doing here? What do I want here? To cry, without having to give an account of one's tears to anyone?
Of course, all this is only the result of the rain. I was longing to be here. It was not a mere hysterical whim. No, no....
It was my own wish to bury myself here.
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Yesterday I was all nerves. To-day I feel as fresh and lively as a cricket.
We have been hanging the pictures, and made thirty-six superfluous holes in the new walls. There is no way of concealing them. (I must write to Richard to have my engravings framed.) It would be stretching a point to say we are skilled picture-hangers; we were nearly as awkward as men when they try to hook a woman's dress for her. But the pictures were hung somehow, and look rather nice now they are up.
But why on earth did I give Torp my sketch of "A Villa by the Sea" to hang in her kitchen? Was I afraid to have it near me? Or was it some stupid wish to hurt his feelings? His only gift.... I feel ashamed of myself.
Jeanne has arranged flowers everywhere, and that helps to make the house more homelike.
The place is mine, and I take possession of it. Now the sun is shining. I find pleasure in examining each article of furniture and remembering the days when we discussed the designs together. I ought not to have let him do all that. It was senseless of me.