God knows, my ‘blackness’ does not come from anything in your letters. Truthfully, I think it comes from my health: it's a part of my illness—just that. I feel ‘ill’ and I feel a longing, longing for you: for our home, our life, and for a little baby. A very dark, obscure, frightening thing seems to rise up in my soul and threaten these desires … that is all. I know this will recur and when it is there I cannot put it away or even say: This is temporary, this is just because of so and so. No, again I am enveloped and powerless to withstand it. So please try and understand it when it comes. It's a queer affair—rather horrible….

I have just been to the post and sent you a “quite unnecessary” telegram. I had to, otherwise my heart would have flown away. My room feels awfully quiet, but the worm has gone off for the week-end with A. She fetched him this morning. She is doing a Still Life of him surrounded with marigolds. It ought to be lovely. She thinks he is “too perfect for worlds, my dear.”

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We are to have a sketch. Of course, Rib was so flattered that he left me without a pang. He's coming back on Monday. A. is more than good to me, brings me fruit, flowers, and this morning a bottle of cider, and last evening some very superior chocolates that D. had sent her. She is infinitely generous, too, in looking after me.