Living a love while refusing it is a very strange business. Lewis's letters broke my heart. 'Will I go on loving you more and more each day?' he wrote. And another time, 'You played a funny trick on me. I can't casually bring women home with me any more. And I no longer have anything to offer those to whom I might have given a little corner of my heart.' How I wanted to throw myself into his arms when I read those words! Since it was forbidden me, I should have told him, 'Forget me.' But I didn't want to say it. I wanted him to love me, wanted him to suffer all the pain I was causing him. I suffered his sadness in remorse. But I suffered, too, on my own account: how slowly time passed, how quickly it passed! Lewis remained as far from me as ever, but each day brought me closer to old age. Our love was ageing; it would die one day without ever having lived. The thought was intolerable. I was happy to leave St Martin and return to Paris, where once again I found my patients, my friends, noise, pursuits that kept me from thinking of myself.