... It would take too long and I am too tired to write out all the varying phases of this day's life—all its impressions and petty miseries chasing one another across my consciousness or leap-frogging over my chest like gleeful fiends.[1]
July 21.
Thoroughly enjoyed the journey up to town this morning. I secretly gloated over the fact that the train was dashing along over the rails to London bearing me and all the rest of the train's company upon their pursuits—wealth, fame, learning. I was inebriated with the speed, ferocity, and dash of living.... If the train had charged into the buffers I should have hung my head out of the window and cheered. If a man had got in my way, I'd have knocked him down. The wheels of the carriage were singing a lusty song in which I joined.
July 30.
... We talked of men and women, and she said she thought men were neither angels nor devils but just men. I said I thought women were either angels or devils.
"I am afraid to ask you which you think me."
"You needn't," I said shortly.
August 9.
Horribly upset with news from home. Mother is really ill. The Doctor fears serious nerve trouble and says she will always be an invalid. This is awful, poor dear! It's dreadful, and yet I have a tiny wish buried at the bottom of my heart that she may be removed early from us rather than linger in pain of body and mind. Especially do I hope she may not live to hear any grievous news of me.... What irony that she should lose the use of her right arm only two years after Dad's death from paralysis. It is cruel for it reminds her of Dad's illness.... What, too, would she think if she could have heard M——'s first words to me yesterday on one of my periodical visits to his consulting room, "Well, how's the paralysis?"