"That appears to end the entry", says François.
"Can you read the next entry?" say I.
"It's more than two weeks later, early September, the eighth. Ready?"
"I have been enjoying one more Sunday night of solitude in the house. Chris and Jim are away at church as always, and I have been sprawled on the couch reading the weekend Globe and Mail, cover to cover. I simply don't go anymore. I can't go. every time I am there, I get upset. People try to be nice and polite and friendly, since I am the ward of their rector, and then as soon as they can legally get away with it, they're gone. I give up. They are not worth my trouble. Jim and Chris both know what's going on It really pains them, and on more than one occasion, Chris has admitted to me that even for him it's hard there. Small wonder, all those privileged young white people, and even the Asians are white, and what do we do with such ignorant, stupid and privileged children, Harriet, except just walk away and pretend they don't exist, since they pretend that we don't exist. Separate solitudes, you now.
They're late and I'm getting tired. More than an hour late. It's ten thirty already, and now I am getting worried. Wait, I hear the car in the driveway. Now two car doors slamming, and footsteps towards the house...
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