I wrote sonnets to her--dozens of them--intending to leave them at the theatre door, but never finding the courage to do it.

I made up bouquets for her, over and over again, chosen from the best flowers in our neglected garden; but invariably with the same result.

I hated the harlequin who presumed to put his arm about her waist.

I envied the clown, whom she condescended to address as Mr.Merriman.In short, I was so desperately in love that I even tried to lie awake at night and lose my appetite; but, I am ashamed to own, failed signally in both endeavors.
At length I wrote to her.

I can even now recall passages out of that passionate epistle.