May 23, 1938
Monday.
There was a strike. J. isn’t telling me much. I await the newspaper tomorrow.
I am rife with worry now because I held back that paper from him the other day. I only skimmed the article thinking it was about what happened 3 years ago.
The holiday mood is gone. My nails are bitten to the quick. Even the cat mopes, and offers no comfort.
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