To Liverpool, she said-told Sylvia, not me. Dear Sylvia, she did not wish to leave. Or not as yet, she said, or not as yet. Her mother kissed her fondly, then was gone with Amy and Richard silent in her train.

Perhaps I should have spoken, said, asked, pleaded. No-I would not plead. I had trodden once too often on that stony ground, watching my words fly beyond her ears-not wholly disregarded, so I like to think, but such curt phrases as she often uttered blew my quieter words away. I have no mere words to utter to her-I have none. The bed in which she had slept that night was ruffled and I feared the maid would see, both pillows used where she perhaps had rolled. Too many purple and impassioned things she often said at nights that frayed my mind with their wild, wicked urges, things that should not be spoken of, and that I cannot bring myself to pen.

Thoughts of that night grow dark and dreary in my mind. I fear for what I think of that stained, twisted sheet, and must not think. I shall pray for her deliverance, and mine, though we may never meet again.

Sylvia played upon the garden swing today. Her sixteenth birthday is upon us soon. Our maid, Rose, should not push her quite so high. I saw above her stocking tops. Someone should speak to her of that, for I cannot. Such subjects are improper-thorn the tongue and prick the lips.

'You look sad, Papa', she laughed. I turned away. I am often told such when in truth I feel but serious. Such innocence becomes the young who feel no pain from silence, music, absence, but ever turn their minds towards some other thing.

Sylvia Mansfield's Day-Book

I did not wish to side with anyone, but neither did I wish to go to Liverpool. Mama, I'm sure, forgives me that. I shall visit them at Christmas, anyway.