"I used to think I must have genius; I didn't think a little gift like mine could cry so loud. If people knew some of the things I have done in my life, they would laugh, because—because one has no right to feel like that and be mediocre; it is silly.... Did you know as a child that you had power?"
"I always longed.... I remember telling my father once that it was in me. I lost hope afterwards.... I've been so miserable."
"I could hear it in your work; you seemed to be speaking for me sometimes.... I wanted to thank you for such a long while before I found the courage to do it. If I had guessed what was to come of it! I did nearly tear the letter up—so nearly!"
"I used to ask myself what you'd say if you could see me. I was frightened I shouldn't hear from you any more if you knew what I was like.... I should have heard from you, shouldn't I?"
"Yes."
"Shall I hear from you still?"
Her gaze rose to him wonderingly. "Do you mean that?" she faltered. "Do you want to?"
"I don't know," he said.
"It would keep the pain alive. You wouldn't be able to bear it."
He was silent a moment, pondering. "Your letters made me happy," he repeated, "they have been all I've had—I shall be poorer without them. Yes, I must have them. I'll try not to think of her when I read them. I'll read them for what they are—what they were to me before I saw her.... This isn't the end?"