“Which books are ruined?” I asked Margot, who was going through them. “Algebra,” Margot said.
But as luck would have it, my algebra book wasn't entirely ruined. I wish it had fallen right in the vase.
I've never loathed any book as much as that one. Inside the front cover are the names of at least twenty girls who had it before I did.
It's old, yellowed, full of scribbles, crossed-out words and revisions.
The next time I'm in a wicked mood, I'm going to tear the darned thing to pieces! Yours, Anne M. Frank
MONDAY, MAY 22, 1944
Dearest Kitty, On May 20, Father lost his bet and had to give five jars of yogurt to Mrs. van Daan: the invasion still hasn't begun.
I can safely say that all of Amsterdam, all of Holland, in fact the entire western coast of Europe, all the way down to Spain,
are talking about the invasion day and night, debating, making bets and... hoping.
The suspense is rising to fever pitch; by no means has everyone we think of as “good” Dutch people kept their faith in the English,
not everyone thinks the English bluff is a masterful strategical move. Oh no, people want deeds—great, heroic deeds.
No one can see farther than the end of their nose, no one gives a thought to the fact
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