Monday 3 March 1930: 'Molly Hamilton writes a d----d bad novel. She has the wits to construct a method of telling a story; & then heaps it with the dreariest, most confused litter of old clothes. When I stop to read a page attentively I am shocked by the dishabille of her English. It is like hearing cooks & scullions chattering; she scarcely articulates [...] And the quality of the emotion is so thick & squab, the emotions of secondrate women painters, of spotted & pimpled young men'.