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these letters, than into any others I could think of.  Remembering this, I burst out with: "If you could see those letters I write to my friends!  But you do not understand how much this reticence means?  Yet to my greatest friend I would not use such words, that are commonly spoken on every occasion, till they have lost all their meaning. [[strikethrough]] For [[/strikethrough]] To such a one there is no need of words, but here can be paid only the homage of silence."

Then all these words, so beautiful in themselves, rarely used will gain a fuller and deeper meaning: my expressions mean more than those of other men. For they are coined not from books, or the custom of the world, but fresh from my own heart and brain. — Ah, they must ring [[strikethrough]] sound and [[/strikethrough]] true, these words that are tried and pondered over! And by as much I hold back, in awe of saying to my friend what things I perceive, before such nobility of nature, for this is my strength of feeling become greater.

If I cannot explain this to our hearer, whom I yet call a friend, because [[strikethrough]] all that is [[/strikethrough]] loyalty [[strikethrough]] in me [[/strikethrough]] makes me do so, I am indeed troubled and pained, but I cannot lower this ideal of friendship, I cannot conquer this reticence. I can only smile it away, and with a strange tigtening somewhere, forget it in a gayer tone and make up by [[strikethrough]] a [[/strikethrough]] greater kindness and admiration, for this complete misunderstanding of my nature.

But this set me [[strikethrough]] thinking: had my [[/strikethrough]] to musing whether my letters [[strikethrough]] sometimes [[/strikethrough]] had ever appeared in this form seemed [[strikethrough]] so [[/strikethrough]] to others?  When I cut them so sternly off at times, at the flower, leaving only the stalk and the leaves (and always the thorns) you could know that a rose was