Sense and Sensibility, authored by unknown lady.

Hid

Sense and Sensibility from Father.

Ate dinner: chicken, bread, cheese.

Conjugated French verbs.

Composed letter to Grandmother.

Ate supper: beefsteak, soup, pudding.

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Sense and Sensibility, author's identity still unknown.

Retired.

Slept.

Dreamed of him.

This was not to be confused with her entry of 12 November of the same year-

Woke.

Ate breakfast: Eggs, toast, ham.

Made great show of reading Greek tragedy. To no avail.

Spent much of the time staring out the window.

Ate lunch: fish, bread, peas.

Conjugated Latin verbs.

Composed letter to Grandmother.

Ate supper: roast, potatoes, pudding.

Brought tragedy to the table (book, not event).

Father did not notice.

Retired.

Slept.

Dreamed of him.

But now- now when something huge and momentous had actually occurred (which it never did) she had nothing to say except-

I can't believe he said that.

"Well, Miranda," she murmured, watching the ink dry on the tip of her quill, "you'll not achieve fame as a diarist."

"What did you say?"

Miranda snapped her diary shut. She had not realized that Olivia had entered the room.

"Nothing," she said quickly.

Olivia moved across the carpet and flopped on the bed. "What a horrible day,"

Miranda nodded, twisting in her seat so that she was facing her friend.

"I am glad you were here," Olivia said with a sigh. "Thank you for remaining for the night."

"Of course," Miranda replied. There had been no question, not when Olivia had said she'd needed her.

"What are you writing?"