"One thing more," she said. "I'm not ashamed of any thing I've done. There's nothing to be ashamed of in loving a person and saying so."

It was not true. The shame of her surrender, her letter, her unrequited love would go on gnawing, burning, till the end of her life. (...)

After all, it did not seem to hurt much: certainly not; like more than could be borne in secret, without a sign. It had all been experience, and that was a salutary thing. You might write a book now, and make him one of the characters; or take up music seriously; or kill yourself.