When everyone went upstairs at two-thirty to either read or take a nap, I went downstairs, with blanket and all, to sit at the desk and read or write.
Before long I couldn't take it anymore. I put my head in my arms and sobbed my heart out.
The tears streamed down my cheeks, and I felt desperately unhappy.
Oh, if only “he” had come to comfort me. It was past four by the time I went upstairs again.
At five o'clock I set off to get some potatoes, hoping once again that we'd meet,
but while I was still in the bathroom fixing my hair, he went to see Boche.
I wanted to help Mrs. van D. and went upstairs with my book and everything, but suddenly I felt the tears coming again.
I raced downstairs to the bathroom, grabbing the hand mirror on the way.
I sat there on the toilet, fully dressed, long after I was through, my tears leaving dark spots on the red of my apron, and I felt utterly dejected.
Here's what was going through my mind: “Oh, I'll never reach Peter this way.”
“Who knows, maybe he doesn't even like me and he doesn't need anyone to confide in.”
“Maybe he only thinks of me in a casual sort of way.”
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