I got on no better with my writing; my brain is as bare as a winter
wood; but I found that I did not rebel against that. Of course it
does not reveal a very dignified temperament, that one should so
take colour from one's surroundings. If I can be equable and good-
humoured here, I ought to be able to be equable and good-humoured
at home; at the same time I am conscious of an intense longing to
see Maud and the children. Probably I should do better to absent
myself resolutely from home at stated intervals; and I think it
argued a fine degree of perception in Maud, that she decided not to
accompany me, though she was pressed to come. I am going home to-
morrow, delighted at the thought, grateful to the good Musgrave, in
a more normal frame of mind than I have been for months.
February 28, 1889.
One of the most depressing things about my present condition is
that I feel, not only so useless, but so prickly, so ugly, so
unlovable. Even Maud's affection, stronger and more tender than
ever, does not help me, because I feel that she cannot love me for
what I am, but for what she remembers me as being, and hopes that I
may be again. I know it is not so, and that she would love me
whatever I did or became; but I cannot realise that now.
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