Sunday 16th September 1934

Summer is not quite past yet. I am in the sitting room at digs, lounging on a couch beside the open window. The trees I can see are still green; no warning of the approaching winter yet.

I had to begin this again. Why did I ever stop? So many things have happened since and Oh! How I’d like to possess them, in writing, for ever! As I write, they flood to my mind, these memories of the last five months.

But it is too late! They must remain in the dusk, half remembered.