She began framing the words of her telegram into a senseless singsong; so that several park keepers looked at her with suspicion and were only brought to a favourable opinion of her sanity by noticing the pearl necklace which she wore.

So the days pass, and I ask myself whether one is not hypnotized, as a child by a silver globe, by life, and whether this is living.

We shall be the mouthpieces of the divine spirit—

The world was going on as usual. All the time she was writing the world had continued.

Melancholy were the sounds on a winter's night.

She was like a crinkled poppy; with the desire to drink dry dust.

what she loved: life, London, this moment of june.