There! Oh, Peter darling…

We were reckless sure enough. Luckily no harm was done. I think. But the way it turned out… Peter’s denouement… I don’t know. Who knows where harm lies? From which direction it can come, and when, and even why? Am I being paranoid really? Peter says that life in New York these days is an unending game of Russian roulette to which one either becomes inured or goes crackers. And after a while one even challenges it, he says-dares it sassily to do its lethal worst. While all the time, under the bravado, there cowers the wee sleekit mousie of a person being just-plain-damned-scared.

What’s a mugger in the dark behind you with a knife blade at your throat compared with being in the clutches of a demon like N.?

Dreadful thought. I’ve waked up well over a thousand times saying thank God it was a nightmare and finding out it wasn’t.

I know people would consider me off my bloody wicket if they could hear me sound off about N. like this. Why, darling, he’s the kindest, most generous-and richest-man on four continents! And he absolutely, positively adores you, loves you madly. Oh, N. loves me madly, all right, the way a Jivaro loves his favorite shrunken head. Love… They should know what that word means to him. And what it means for a girl to have to endure over four years of…

I need a drink, dear Diary.

Better.

It’s getting late and I’ve made hardly a start chronicling the day’s events. Well, who gives a flying damn? Excuse me again, Diary. That tasted like more.

Everything a wife could ask for. Their envy tells me that. Oh, yeah? I’d like to see the wife.

May as well set the bottle handy. Handy brandy. Can’t think of a rhyme for “cognac.” Except “Zatzo, Mac?” and that wouldn’t take fourth prize in a contest for idiots.