Try to forget her when she is out of sight." "But," broke in Julian, "this amounts to a sentence of death! What of the life before me, of the years I shall have to spend with her?
Work, forget myself, forget her,--that is just what I _cannot_ do! My nerves are getting weaker every day; I am beginning to have fits of trembling and horrible palpitation; my dreams are hideous with vague apprehensions, only to be realised when I wake.

Work! Half my misery is caused by the thought that my work is at an end for ever.

It is all forsaking me, the delight of imagining great things, what power I had of putting my fancies into words, the music that used to go with me through the day's work.

It is long since I wrote a line of verse.
Quietness, peace, a calm life of thought, these things are what I _must_ have; I thought I should have them in a higher degree than ever, and I find they are irretrievably lost.

I feel my own weakness, as I never could before.