And this happened over and over again.

I gave up the dancing-club, I ceased to know the rowdy little boys, and I wrote melancholy poetry oftener, and felt better.

The centre table became my study.

I read much, and mooned between chapters, and wrote long letters to Miss Dillingham.
For some time I wrote to her almost daily.

That was when I found in my heart such depths of woe as I could not pack into rhyme.