The fond lover--as it might be myself--sees his beloved depart on a railway journey with apprehension.

He never ceases to remember that engines burst and trains run off the line.

In an agony he awaits the telegram that tells him she has reached Shepherd's Bush in safety.
When he sees her talking, as if she liked it, to another man, he is torn, he is rent asunder, he is dismembered by jealousy.

He walks beneath her window till the policeman sees him home; and when he wakes in the morning, it is to murmur her name to himself until he falls asleep again and is late for the office.

Well, do I experience such sensations, or do I not?
Is this love, after all?
Where are the spills?
"I have been taking for granted that I know who it is.