I hurt myself last night. Wickedly, evil as I now know I am, I watched Aunt Isobel disappear into the woods. At once I got into bed quiet naked, and fondled and squeezed and caressed myself while I reread parts of my diary it was wonderful, and I made it last and last, and I forgot myself, became over excited, and thrust a finger into myself. Not in the back. In the front. It hurt terribly.
There was no blood, though. I didn’t break it. Oh, what agony it must be to be to be I cannot, I will not think about that.
Oh… Aunt Isobel’s manner of waking was exceedingly strange again today. At about two the telephone rang. I answered it; it was Mister… it was Erik, and he asked for her. My heart leaped and pounded; he said, “Hello, Tory. Put down the telephone and go and call your aunt for me.”
She merely said, “Hello,” and listened, and then said, “Yes. Thank you.” And she hung up. Walking still strangely, as though she had just got off a horse and were sore, she went up to her room. When she came down an hour later, she no longer walked so oddly.