As on the first day, I am harassed by the conflict of the desire to see you and the dread of touching a dream lest it perish.

Ah, yes, you spoke truly.
Miserable, miserable wretches that we are, our timorous souls are so afraid of any reality that they dare not think a sympathy which has taken possession of them capable of surviving an interview with the person who gave it birth.

Yet, in spite of this fine casuistry, I simply must confess to you--no, no, nothing.

Guess if you can, and forgive me for this banal letter.

Or rather, read between the lines, and perhaps you will find there a little bit of my heart and a great deal of what I leave unsaid.
"'A foolish letter with "I" written all over it.