On one occasion, when he returned to the inn, he found on his table a note addressed to himself.

Whence it had come, and who had delivered it, he failed to discover, for the waiter declared that the person who had brought it had omitted to leave the name of the writer.
Beginning abruptly with the words "I MUST write to you," the letter went on to say that between a certain pair of souls there existed a bond of sympathy; and this verity the epistle further confirmed with rows of full stops to the extent of nearly half a page.

Next there followed a few reflections of a correctitude so remarkable that I have no choice but to quote them.

"What, I would ask, is this life of ours ?" inquired the writer.

"'Tis nought but a vale of woe.