I am digging the pen into the paper, I feel this so strongly, and I am so wretchedly incompetent to express my feeling.

Can you imagine a diseased mind, imprisoned in a healthy body?
I don't care what doctors or books may say--it is that, and nothing else.

Nothing else will solve the mystery of the smooth face, the fleshy figure, the firm step, the muscular grip of her hand when she gives it to you--and the soul in torment that looks at you all the while out of her eyes.

It is useless to tell me that such a contradiction as this cannot exist.

I have seen the woman; and she does exist.
Oh yes! I can fancy you grinning over my letter--I can hear you saying to yourself, "Where did he pick up his experience, I wonder ?" I have no experience--I only have something that serves me instead of it, and I don't know what.