I have disappeared. You are only the second person to know of this, but I know you do not care. You, the only woman I have ever loved, will not care even if I died; you have your shirts and skirts to wash and that is enough for you. I do not think that you would care even if Andrew died, but perhaps that is wishful thinking on my part.
There is a manuscript in the top drawer of the desk in my room. Take it to the address I have written there and have them publish it. They will give you the money for it and ask no questions. The money is what I have owed you for the time I spent there.
If all the words I ever wrote came back to me and I strung the loveliest among them into sentences fit to win a queen --- even then you would not care. Words are all I have to woo a woman who will not read them. Is any man on earth a lesser fool than I?