She is very sweet, and I am very fond of her. I seek to extenuate nothing; I write the crude facts as I know them. She has black hair and eyes; she is very white and slender, with nestling ways. She is not very learned or rich, but patrician and proud; all agree that she is beautiful. She is debonair and sweet, and when I think of you she is nothing to me—nothing!
But I tried to love her just in love’s despite; and she was happy in the main, and I was half-resigned. I stifle when I think of that.
How pitiful it all was!
Often she leaned, touched my shoulder, and spoke with downcast eyes:—
“Do you really love me?”
“Very tenderly.”
“Passionately?”
“Passionately.”
“With all your heart?”
“With all my heart.”