December 8th, 1890
Written in a clean, precise Latin. It would be difficult to read aloud, but a practiced eye would catch the visual poetry and decisive word arrangements. Dear Mr. Crouch,
I am not a woman to skirt around my intentions or fear rebuff, but I must confess that I am most anxious for your possible reply. Subterfuge and coy overtures seem ridiculous, but knowing that I may express my admiration without fear or interruption is quite attractive.
I must, in this sort of boldness, express my admiration for your nimble mind, steady negotiation, and dedication to your own. I have experienced your work from a distance; savored your words on the page, but I confess I lose my nerve in your presence. It is a most foreign feeling. It seems I am destined to praise you from afar and lose my graces in your presence. How I wish this were not the case as there is warmth in your icy eyes and I do wish to know them.
Yours,
Anon
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