Saturday, March 6th., Winter Palace, Menton.
I have returned to reading Stendhal's "Promenades dans Rome". Then I sat in garden and thought out next chapter of my novel. We just got back to the hotel at 1 p.m. for lunch. Neuralgia. I slept 15 minutes and woke acutely nervous and still neuralgic. I went in to Dorothy and said: "I can't sleep and I can't work either." She said: "Perhaps you can begin packing my valise." She was sewing. As only sarcastic responses occured to me I made no reply but returned to my room and began to write. I wrote 1,100 words, a complete chapter, in 75 minutes, and then felt better. Writing as therapy.
We set off back to England tomorrow, in time for Dorothy's confinement. I have a lot of things on my mind, apart from impending fatherhood I mean. Particularly the situation with Septimus who is dying of consumption in North Wales. I must go to see him of course, but how to handle the situation I know not. Also I have heard from Ida Godebski, who has seen Marguerite and tells me that she would not on any account agree to a divorce.
We are returning in short stages, for Dorothy's benefit, to Paris and then via Calais to London. I intend to stay at Claridges for a week or so when we get back and have written to Miss Nerney to that effect. I don't want to go back to Cadogan Square until after the child is born. Then my life really will change. I am nearly 60 - can I adapt to the new circumstances? Only time will tell.
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