If you think I ought to stay till April, I stay and risk the offensive and the sous-marins without murmur. Voilà! page 128 My health won't improve by being here: it's as good as it ever will be—to—–'s rage, disgust and chagrin, of course. Oh, you should have seen her face drop when she said, “I thought you were very ill.” My blood turned ice with horror.

I went a great old walk yesterday, came in, screwed my head tight, and thought myself nearly black in the face, but got very little down. Trouble is I feel I have found an approach to a story now which I must apply to everything. Is that nonsense? I read what I wrote before that last and I feel: No, this is all once removed: it won't do. And it won't. I've got to reconstruct everything.

If I do come in March I will come with her. Frankly, that is a relief—to feel I have some one to help me. I am not much good at this travelling alone….