May 11, 1913 [The House of Darkness]
I thought of her the other day. The years since I've seen her are so many now that I'm ashamed to admit I still hold her dear—no, I'm not ashamed. She was animated and lovely, a mischief-maker with a dancer's leaping heart—and I know that the phrase sounds achingly maudlin, but whenever I was with her I felt like a child—in my freedom, in my feeling that everything held still simply to allow me to enjoy the moment with her moving before me. When I told her I loved her and she told me that she didn't share my feelings, I again behaved like a child: I walked away and wept, inconsolable—and determined to remain that way. The years have passed, and fortunately I've been consoled now and again, but of course I still think of her—and when I do, I find myself again drawing in my breath in well-worn pain—and in the exhalation I've taken to humming a song, some Stephen Foster-ish sentimental composition or another. Is it at times actually "Beautiful
