He wrote an elaborate diary, containing, day by day, the record of this visionary existence which he had never dared put to the test of actuality. The diary described minutely a blissful wedded life with the woman of his dreams. Every Christmas and Easter Day a bottle of the ’47 was solemnly set upon his table and solemnly removed, unopened, at the close of his frugal meal.
This makes me very sad, though to each his own, I suppose.
