1 I do not know how I am writing this even to you.
2 It does not read like him, and yet it is his writing.
3 I must keep writing at every chance, for I dare not stop to think.
4 And there is also something about the shorthand symbols that makes it different from writing.
5 Indeed, I am writing now, with my book on my knee, and listening to the talk of three old men who are sitting beside me.
6 I shall try to do what I see lady journalists do: interviewing and writing descriptions and trying to remember conversations.
7 I am writing up this part of the diary whilst I am waiting for the coach, which is, of course, late; and the crucifix is still round my neck.
8 There was absolutely nothing in the room, book, newspaper, or even writing materials; so I opened another door in the room and found a sort of library.
9 Of course my statement must be taken cum grano, since I am writing from the dictation of a clerk of the Russian consul, who kindly translated for me, time being short.
10 Then he took up my two and placed them with his own, and put by his writing materials, after which, the instant the door had closed behind him, I leaned over and looked at the letters, which were face down on the table.
11 Here I am, sitting at a little oak table where in old times possibly some fair lady sat to pen, with much thought and many blushes, her ill-spelt love-letter, and writing in my diary in shorthand all that has happened since I closed it last.
12 He explained to me that posts were few and uncertain, and that my writing now would ensure ease of mind to my friends; and he assured me with so much impressiveness that he would countermand the later letters, which would be held over at Bistritz until due time in case chance would admit of my prolonging my stay, that to oppose him would have been to create new suspicion.