Slept with A- who is less out of health than temper, of which I gradually think less and less.

A- would seem ill or out of sorts to Mr G[ray]. She talked a little, lastly, to him but came up to bed from the dining room at eight and three quarters. I followed and asked what was the matter – I saw all was terribly wrong. She said she should be much obliged to me to let her go. I said quietly she should do as she liked, but on calmly pressing to know what was the matter she said what might be a provocation to one, might be none to another – I should break her heart. I could get no explanation, but she was unhappy. I waited a little while and really moved to tears. She said she had not the gift of the gab as I had. I said that she was unhappy I regretted very deeply but I was innocent of knowing how that could be from any fault of mine, but perhaps she would rather that I wished her goodnight. She turned and wished me goodnight and we saluted. I said, in tears, I should give her very little trouble and came away.

What shall I do? Surely the business with A- draws to a close? What can I do with her, better she should go? Anything would be better than this perpetual worry. I am better for having written the above – a thousand things coming to my head – but I will go to bed. I shall be calmer in the morning. No, I am calm enough, but I shall feel less worried. Shall I be off immediately, as soon as I can?

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