I feel that winter, cruel forbidding winter is content to leave nothing unfrozen—not one heart or one bud of a soul to escape! If only one did not feel that it is all so wrong—so wrong. It would be much happier if one could feel—like M.—mankind is born to suffer. But I do feel that is so wrong—so wrong. It is like saying: mankind is born to walk about in goloshes under an umbrella. Oh dear—I should like to put a great notice over England, closed during the winter months. Perhaps if everybody were shipped off to blue skies and big bright flowers they would change. But I don't know. The miracle is that one goes on hoping and believing through it all just as passionately as ever one did—

This is a grey, grim, pavement of a day, with slow dropping rain. When the Mountain brought me my early-morning tea this morning she whispered, tenderly: “Do you think it would be a good idea to change one ton of coal for two of large anthracite? I don't think we require a special permit and even if we do I think it is worth it.” My bed turned into a railway truck, shuffled off to the pit head, and two tons of large anthracite were tumbled on it … a very lourd paquet to begin the day with….