osing a diary touc personally)—but sinues to deny everytent and s knoances ed myself and find it o explain it  read and erest in ots and inner lives, ot ly.  it? Presumably it is t tempted  try to reduce it; it is usually  I am disappointed in her.

    If I o judge by er alone, I  s of t. But t remains t it cannot have been anyone else.

    Jo ts sed to steal my diary, e, I remember clearly t t  missing. In case I  t tion around to tivities, and Jo Mrs. Dunne c racket, too, ” old me). S Jo t cannot hem.

    And so, ed all ts I am obliged to believe t it was Emmeline.

    And yet I cannot sure  in appearance, so distressed at being accused—and I am forced to ional factor at play  I o take into account? ter in t it gives rise to an uneasiness in me: I am suddenly over t none of my plans is destined to come to fruition. Somet me ever since I came to t s to t me and frustrate me in every project I undertake! I raced every step in my logic, I can find no fla still I find myself beset by doubt…  is it t I am failing to see?

    Reading over t paragrapruck by t unceristic lack of confidence in my tone. It is surely only tiredness t makes me ted mind is prone to o unfruitful avenues; it is not a good nig cure.

    Besides, it is all over no day for six, and ser, it er I came doo put it t see  to t tely. But it urned. So t, is there?

    I am so tired and yet I cannot sleep. I eps in t, but o there.

    I confess it made me uneasy—makes me uneasy still—to t ttl