During the night I thought, "Perhaps to-morrow I shall be more
composed." Nothing of the kind. I am simply in a rage with Aniela,
Aniela's mother, my aunt, and myself. The wind ought to be tempered
for the shorn lamb, and they forget that my wool is deucedly thin.
After all, I am comfortable where I am. Laura is like a marble statue.
Near her nothing troubles me very much, because there is nothing
except beauty. I am tired of over-strained, tender souls. Let
Kromitski comfort her.