The more I think of you, the more I
love you, I cannot see how any one could
hate you. You have always been to me an
honest, faithful friend, and I hope my love is not an
object of contempt. It is true that once I said
I would never marry, but that was before
I loved you. That assertion you know was
uttered in a bragging manner, in fact nothing but
a lie, and I do not know why I made it. If I
could even get enough courage to
offer you my hand I know very well you
would be surprised and I doubt if you
would accept it. I do not think I would
listen to a refusal from your lips and
thus make my whole life miserable. To die
without ever expressing my love for you
would be preferable to that. If you write to me
I should be happy, but if you do not
I shall be miserable and gloomy, your letters
are a source of pleasure and a failure to get them
always make me feel like committing suicide.