Only the margin left to write on now. I love you, I love you, I love you.

...With stories even a page can take me hours, but the truth seems to flow out as fast as I can get it down.

Cruel blows of fate call for extreme kindness in the family circle.

Everything in the least connected with him has value for me; if someone even mentions his name it is like a little present to me-and I long to mention it myself

Stew's so comforting on a rainy day.

...surely I could give him--a sort of contentment... That isn't enough to give. Not for the giver.

My hand is very tired but I want to go on writing. I keep resting and thinking. All day I have been two people - the me imprisoned in yesterday and the me out here on the mound; and now there is a third me trying to get in - the me in what is going to happen next.