Could I make money out of it? Some decent fortune, I mean, of course.
29th—Ho, ho, such a day!
I was aroused by the roar of a milk-wagon early in the morning.
I sought a pin in vain.
I tore my skirt on a sneering nail at the door.
I upset my flower-vase.
I sat by my window. A vegetable pedlar howled to me, “Potatoes? Potatoes?”
I couldn’t recall a sweet dream I had last night.
The clamour of a Chinese funeral passed under my room. The carriages were packed with hired “crying women.” Isn’t it a farce?
I went out. My street-car ran off the track.