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- Джон Фоулз
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It
’
s
so
unfair
.
October
17th
I
hate
the
way
I
have
changed
.
I
accept
too
much
.
To
begin
with
I
thought
I
must
force
myself
to
be
matter
-
of
-
fact
,
not
let
his
abnormality
take
control
of
the
situation
.
But
he
might
have
planned
it
.
He
’
s
getting
me
to
behave
exactly
as
he
wants
.
This
isn
’
t
just
a
fantastic
situation
;
it
’
s
a
fantastic
variation
of
a
fantastic
situation
.
I
mean
,
now
he
’
s
got
me
at
his
mercy
,
he
’
s
not
going
to
do
what
anyone
would
expect
.
So
he
makes
me
falsely
grateful
.
I
’
m
so
lonely
.
He
must
realize
that
.
He
can
make
me
depend
on
him
.
I
’
m
on
edge
,
I
’
m
nowhere
near
as
calm
as
I
seem
(
when
I
read
what
I
’
ve
written
)
.
It
’
s
just
that
there
’
s
so
much
time
to
get
through
.
Endless
endless
endless
time
.
What
I
write
isn
’
t
natural
.
It
’
s
like
two
people
trying
to
keep
up
a
conversation
.
It
’
s
the
very
opposite
of
drawing
.
You
draw
a
line
and
you
know
at
once
whether
it
’
s
a
good
or
a
bad
line
.
But
you
write
a
line
and
it
seems
true
and
then
you
read
it
again
later
.
Yesterday
evening
he
wanted
to
take
a
photograph
of
me
.
I
let
him
take
several
.
I
think
,
he
may
be
careless
,
someone
may
see
me
lying
around
.
But
I
think
he
lives
quite
alone
.
He
must
do
.
He
must
have
spent
all
last
night
developing
and
printing
them
(
as
if
he
’
d
go
to
the
chemist
’
s
!
I
don
’
t
think
)
.
Flashlit
me
’
s
on
glossy
paper
.
I
didn
’
t
like
the
flashlight
.
It
hurt
my
eyes
.
