24 March

Nasty rain all day. Uncle Jack in a terrible mood. Why is it that when I am feeling rather gloomy, I am made to go to my room, while Uncle Jack is allowed to run amok about the whole house? No one seems to care at all that my heart is broken over losing my poor, dear Ernest. When will I be allowed to mourn my great loss? I cannot properly grieve with all the *to do* in the place. It really is quite inconsiderate of Uncle Jack not to think of me at this time. He is not to be appeased. What an ogre he has become of late.