March 20th, 1824.

The dreaded time is come, and Arthur is gone, as I expected.

This time he announced it his intention to make but a short stay in London, and pass over to the Continent, where he should probably stay a few weeks; but I shall not expect him till after the lapse of many weeks: I now know that, with him, days signify weeks, and weeks months.
July 30th .-- He returned about three weeks ago, rather better in health, certainly, than before, but still worse in temper.

And yet, perhaps, I am wrong: it is I that am less patient and forbearing.

I am tired out with his injustice, his selfishness and hopeless depravity.