“Indeed they are not.”
He shrugged his shoulders, quite non-plussed. She had always been a riddle to him. She knew this and loved to mystify him:
“Sometimes my days are very nice and sometimes very horrid.”
“Really?” he said, smiling, looking at her out of his kind little eyes.
But still he did not understand.
“And so sometimes I have a great deal to write in my diary,” she continued.
“Let me see some of it.”
“By all means ... after I’m dead.”
A mock shiver ran through his broad shoulders:
“Brr! How gloomy!”