My hair, once ebony-black, is white as a wreath of Alpine snow, though its clustering curls are thick as ever.
"A constitutional inheritance ?" asks one physician, observing my frosted locks.
"A sudden shock ?" suggests another.
"Exposure to intense heat ?" hints a third.
I answer none of them.

I did so once.

I told my story to a man I met by chance--one renowned for medical skill and kindliness.

He heard me to the end in evident incredulity and alarm, and hinted at the possibility of madness.

Since then I have never spoken.
But now I write.