Dearest Diary,
It appears that much has transpired over the course of the last seventy-two hours or so, and yet also very little. Would that I could divulge so much to you, I would be spilling forth, I fear. However, I must give way to my better judgment which deems I say very little. And very little is what I shall say, but not because I cannot say much, but because there is actually very little to tell. To own to affection, is but a small detail. I had bargained a fortnight ago to be "crossed in love," and I tell you, I am so very much.
He is not the gentleman I should truly desire, yet beyond my disdain for such a match, I cannot help but be intrigued by him. And as such, to be found completely without intellect, wit, or charm in his company. I tell you, at one word from him, I am but a fool.
I have heard tell that such attention from a gentleman can have such an effect. I fumble with words, etiquette, and posture whenever he is near and if that is not quite enough, I give way to uncontrollable relentless laughter.
How can such behaviour be modified? How can I convince myself of his shortcomings and therefore desire to have no more to do with him? I am certain that I must be firm on the matter.
But is there harm in finding one attractive? Certainly not!
Dearest Diary, I must, however, admit that I am trifling with you. What I write is something that would certainly add excitement to such a story, if it were true, would it not? Can you deny that your curiosity was aroused? Unfortunately, we shall have to save such remarks for another entry. The above is candidly untrue.
But perhaps tomorrow?...
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