I wonder what you are doing with your Sunday? And if it's fine or dreadful? It's very fine here—a little page 312 windy, that's all. My day has been like my last few days. I rise at 12, lunch, lie on the sofa till 6, and then say, “Are the hot water-bottles upstairs?” and go to bed. It's a small beat, but there is a large Policeman on it who frightens me a bit. My fever returned last night, I don't know why. It decided me to take a step. Your “clock” complex is surpassed by my doctor complex, but my collection, unlike yours, never is reliable, never tells the real truth, or strikes the real hour—except the beautiful clock S. But I am going to call in another. I don't want to see Ansaldi again. What is the good? Who wants “sheering up” only? And besides he repels me. But yesterday that Miss S. came here and though she was far too kind and concerned, she did implore me to see F., the Englishman. In fact, she asked me if she could go back and telephone him, and I said Yes, perhaps it's just as well. He comes to-morrow.

But I must get Richard to print off a decent little pamphlet entitled “The Physical History of K. M. 1917–19—?” It's so wearisome, so—I don't know—like ashes, to hear myself recite my one recitation—a bird with one song, “How the Fowler Trapped me.” Perhaps that's what all birds in cages sing. Next time you pass me, listen and hear it:

I was flying through a wood
A green wood,
A spring wood,
It was early, early morning….

The fire is all right, but it's become a burning bridge with no heart—just an arc de triomphe. I can't get up and put it together, I am so wound round in my Jaeger rug. There was a purchase. It's dusk here. My pen seems to make such a loud noise. The wind swings in the shadowy air. The sea cries.