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It's bitterly cold, pouring with rain, a hard, heavy wind blowing and the sky like an iron shutter. 4.30 and the light is on. I went outside this morning but was blown in again, and I've been writing at the dining room table. My little table is too small. I am so thankful after all that I brought really warm clothes. On a besoin. To-day—thick jaegers, jersey and cardigan, and deux pantalons.

That cat I made such a fuss about got in the larder last night and stole our meat. It sprang in the window to-day again and looked like a devil when I shooed it away. I shall have no cats here. And she has broken our glass jug. Well, well. First thing I saw was the fragments outside the back door. It can't be helped. She said, “It was very frail from the beginning.” I suppose one would make the same excuse if one dropped and broke a baby! I hope my review is all right. I feel far away when I am writing—as though I am being confusing, you can't hear me. It makes me anxious.

Heavy thunder prowls round the sky. Now it is sunset, and the shutter of the sky lifts to show one bright band of gold. I am just a little bit tired; it is the weather—the thunder and sudden intense heavy cold like lead. Oh, what a good idea! I'll drink a glass of wine … Getrunken. Really, England is never colder than this to-day. Now it is hailing, enormous hail. I'd like to be in Sussex, and very, very snug. But don't think I'm depressed. I'm not—only so parky after such a long taste of heavenly fair climate. And very angry because in spite of the cold the mosquitos and gnats persist. Both my hands are bandaged to-day. Why don't they die? She caught one to-day and put it out of window instead of killing it! I expect they've passed the word round that this house is an asile for them.