I sent a review yesterday. Before I forget—will you change the last sentence of all? Substitute another word for the word “great.” I can't remember just how it went, but I woke up in the night with the Lord crying “Samuel!” to me and saying, “Cut that bit out about a great novel!”

The sun came out this morning, took a cloud or two, did a little extremely high-class modelling on the grand scale—“The Banquet,” “Greek Warriors Resting,” “A Grecian Lady with a Bowl” and so on, all along the horizon for the benefit of a tiny little sailing ship and me. Then it went in again, and heaven knows how many doors are between us. It is bitterly cold and windy with great puffs of dust. I wonder if it will get warmer again? I don't see why it should, and yet who would come for a saison d'hiver to get a blue nose and fingers? A mystery to me.

I can't help feeling: Why didn't I go to Ventnor or some such place? Why go so far? It couldn't be colder in the Isle of Wight. Well, it only determines me never to do it again….