I meant to write about death, only life came breaking in as usual. I like, I see, to question people about death. I have taken it into my head that I shan't live till seventy. Suppose, I said to myself the other day, this pain over my heart suddenly wrung me out like a dish cloth and left me dead? - I was feeling sleepy, indifferent, and calm; and so thought it didn't much matter, except for L. Then, some bird or light, I daresay, or waking wider, set me off wishing to live - wishing chiefly to walk along the river and look at things.