Their time together was dictated according to his life with H. Some weeks they might steal only an hour- for this she might take a train for an hour each way to be with him. Some weeks they might enjoy two whole days, a night. Last-minute changes, cancellations, so many lonely waits at stations, so many nights leaving the train in the dark, coming home without him. Leaving his arms, seeing his waving hand disappear in the crowd as she boarded the train to carry her miles away from him, grew to hurt her more than she could bear, for she could see no end, no change. Peterborough station grew to symbolise immense joy for her, and immense sorrow. Arriving, leaving. Sometimes never knowing how long it would be - two weeks? two days?...Why had she not listened to those inner warnings ? Constant uncertainty, the loneliness, ate away at her, and she knew she was trapped, slowly suffocating in misery. She wrote in her diary at that time...
" Cupid, don't you ever watch where you fire your arrows? Why do you shoot into hearts that cannot fulfill the desires you bestow? I swore I would never again enter a liaison such as this, where I always take second place to another, where I must dodge and dive and be grateful for crumbs from his table...Is this an obsession? I don't think so - just that familiar ache of a deep need for closeness, for touch, for knowing he is there - remaining unsatisfied.
The cruelty of being given an itch I cannot scratch. All I long for is the twinkle in his eyes, to hear him laugh, breathe in the smell of his skin. Ah, the searching heart, whose restlessness is hidden from the world, whose restlessness plays on, a silent and unseen accompaniment to the outward existence of my days.."
It was soon after this that she wrote him a letter.
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