He will
eat me up. Oh, I am sure I shall hate it. No man has ever kissed me in my
life, and I can't judge, but I am sure it is frightful--unless--I feel as
if I shall go crazy if I stay here any longer. I can't--I can't stop and
wait and face it. I must have some air first. There is a misty fog. I
would like to go out and get lost in it, and I _will_, too! Not get lost,
perhaps, but go out in it, and alone. I won't have even Veronique. I shall
go by myself into the park. It is growing nearly dark, though only three
o'clock. I have got an hour. It looks mysterious, and will soothe me, and
suit my mood, and then, when I come in again, I shall perhaps be able to
bear it bravely, kisses and all.
CLARIDGE'S,
Sunday evening, _November 27th._
I have a great deal to write, and yet it is only a few hours since I shut
up this book and replaced the key on my bracelet.
By a quarter-past three I was making my way through Grosvenor Square.
Everything was misty and blurred, but not actually a thick fog--or any
chance of being lost. By the time I got into the park it had lifted a
little. It seemed close and warm, and as I went on I got more depressed. I
have never been out alone before--that in itself seemed strange, and ought
to have amused me.
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