2 September 1935 – 8 September 1935

I am going to wrap my brain in green dock leaves for a few days: 5, if I can hold out; till the children, L.’s nieces, have gone. If I can—for I think a scene is forming. Why not make an easier transition: Maggie looking at the Serpentine say; and so avoid that abrupt spring? Isn’t it odd that this was the scene I had almost a fit to prevent myself writing? This will be the most exciting thing I ever wrote, I kept saying. And now it’s the stumbling block. I wonder why? Too personal, is that it? Out of key? But I won’t think.