Somehow, the impression comes frequently to me that there are

goings on in this house of which I know nothing, and which she is

careful to hide from me.

Last night her son slept in the house, and this morning as I was

standing at the window I saw him go out. He glanced up and caught my

eye. It was a loutish figure and a singularly repulsive face that I

saw, and he gave me the benefit of a very unpleasant leer. At least, so

I imagined.

Evidently I am getting absurdly sensitive to trifles, and I suppose

it is my disordered nerves making themselves felt. In the British

Museum this afternoon I noticed several people at the readers’ table

staring at me and watching every movement I made. Whenever I looked up

from my books I found their eyes upon me. It seemed to me unnecessary

and unpleasant, and I left earlier than was my custom. When I reached

the door I threw back a last look into the room, and saw every head at

the table turned in my direction. It annoyed me very much, and yet I

know it is foolish to take note of such things. When I am well they

pass me by. I must get more regular exercise. Of late I have had next

to none.

Nov. 2.—The utter stillness of this house is beginning to oppress

me. I wish there were other fellows living upstairs. No footsteps ever

sound overhead, and no tread ever passes my door to go up the next

flight of stairs. I am beginning to feel some curiosity to go up myself

and see what the upper rooms are like. I feel lonely here and

isolated, swept into a deserted corner of the world and forgotten…

. Once I actually caught myself gazing into the long, cracked mirrors,

trying to sec the sunlight dancing beneath the trees in the orchard.

But only deep shadows seemed to congregate there now, and I soon

desisted.

It has been very dark all day, and no wind stirring. The fogs have

begun. I had to use a reading-lamp all this morning. There was no cart

to be heard to-day. I actually missed it. This morning, in the gloom

and silence, I think I could almost have welcomed it. After all, the

sound is a very human one, and this empty house at the end of the

alley holds other noises that are not quite so satisfactory.

I have never once seen a policeman in the lane, and the postmen

always hurry out with no evidence of a desire to loiter.