I have not written it. No matter, I feel better; I already begin to
laugh at myself.
_June 4th._--Their eyes met once at supper, only once, and they did
not look at each other when they said good night. Which means most,
to look or not to look? I cannot read clearly yet. And one can
certainly twice ask the same person to pass the salt without its
meaning anything. This is very ugly in me; my better self is filled
with sorrow. Surely it must be in every one's power to quell the
visions of the inmost eye when they rise sinfully, to close their
ears against such whisperings as now I listen to.
I must fight this. Doubt is Love's murderer.
_June 6th._--Constance should not have said that; there was no need.
Why have I come upstairs and left them together? I am raving mad.
And now to cry like a baby! I have cried every day for five days;
this is monstrous! I think that if some one came and whipped me, I
might feel better. This is some sickness, surely; relaxed nerves,
quick blood. I shall write it all down carefully, calling on what
sense I have left to be judge. Of course the judge will laugh. But
first I will wash my face.
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