As her third note proves: "'Never accuse yourself, monsieur--I repress a tenderer name which rises to my lips--of being unable to give me consolation.
Weary, disabused, as we are, and done with it all, let us sometimes permit our souls to speak to each other--low, very low--as I have spoken to you this night, for henceforth my thought is going to follow you wherever you are.' "Four pages of the same tune," he said, turning the leaves, "but this is better: "'Tonight, my unknown friend, one word only.

I have passed a horrible day, my nerves in revolt and crying out against the petty sufferings they are subjected to every minute.

A slamming door, a harsh or squeaky voice floating up to me out of the street....

Yet there are whole hours when I am so far from being sensitive that if the house were burning I should not move.

Am I about to send you a page of comic lamentations?
Ah, when one has not the gift of rendering one's grief superbly and transforming it into literary or musical passages which weep magnificently, the best thing is to keep still about it.
"'I bid you a silent goodnight.