Excerpt from Stories by American Authors, Vol. 1
Ome, now, there may as well be an end of this Every time I meet your eyes squarely I detect the question just slipping out of them. If you had spoken it, or even boldly looked it if you had shown in your motions the least sign of a fussy or fidgety concern on my account; if this were not the evening of my birthday, and you the only friend who remembered it if confession were not good for the soul, though harder than sin to some people, of whom I am one, - well, if all reasons were not at this instant converged into a focus, and burning me rather violently in that region where the seat of emotion is supposed to lie, I should keep my trouble to myself. Yes, I have fifty times had it on my mind to tell you the whole story. But who can be certain that his best friend will not smile - or, what is worse.
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