I'm no use to anybody,' I say. 'I'm a cérébrale, can't you see that?' Thinking how funny a book would be, called 'Just a Cérébrale or You Can't Stop Me From Dreaming'. Only, of course, to be accepted as authentic, to carry any conviction, it would have to be written by a man. What a pity, what a pity!

When he talked his eyes went away from mine and then he forced himself to look straight at me and he began to explain and I knew that he felt very strange with me and that he hated me, and it was funny sitting there and talking like that, knowing he hated me.

Everything tender and melancholy - as life is sometimes, just for one moment.

Now at last I know why I was brought here and what I have to do.

I sit at my window and the words fly past me like birds — with God's help I catch some.

I have tried," I said, "but he does not believe me. It is too late for that now" (it is always too late for truth, I thought).

The feeling of Sunday is the same everywhere, heavy, melancholy, standing still.