Chapter 21

I have to pull myself together. I have three sittings tomorrow morning, and I shan’t be able to pose if my face is all swollen from crying. It was bound to happen, and what’s the difference? New York is just like that. It was sensible. I couldn’t go on living by a memory forever. That’s démodé. Alan, Alan. I’ll write once more about how I care for you--how I have cared for you for six years, and then burn this diary, like a melodramatic adolescent, and forget you; and be sensible; stop crying and be sensible, and g…