letter to some one in closest sympathy with myself seems the only
form that offers.

It is, as I said, a confession, but a very dear confession: I burn to
tell it honestly, yet know not how. To withhold it from you would be
to admit a secretiveness that our relationship has never known--out
it must, and to you. I may, perhaps, borrow--who can limit the
sharing powers of twin brothers like ourselves?--some of the skill
your own work spills so prodigally, crumbs from your writing-table,
so to speak; and you will forgive the robbery, if successful, as you
will accept lie love behind the confession as your due.

Now, listen, please! For this is the point: that, although my wife is
dead these dozen years and more--I have found reunion and I love.
Explanation of this must follow as best it may. So, please mark tie
point which for the sake of emphasis I venture to repeat: that I know
reunion and I love.

With the jealous prerogative of the twin, you objected to that
marriage, though I knew that it deprived you of no jot of my
affection, owing to the fact that it was prompted by pity only,
leaving the soul in me wholly disengaged. Marion, by her steady
refusal to accept my honest friendship, by her persistent admiration
of me, as also by her loveliness, her youth, her singing, persuaded
me somehow finally that I needed her. The cry of the flesh, which
her beauty stimulated and her singing increased most strangely,
seemed raised into a burning desire that I mistook at the moment for
the true desire of the soul. Yet, actually, the soul in me remained
aloof, a spectator, and one, moreover, of a distinctly lukewarm kind.
It was very curious. On looking back, I can hardly understand it even