I kept thinking how marvellous it would be if I could somehow tear my heart, which felt so heavy, out of my chest. - Anton Chekhov

Seeing me, she uttered a cry of joy, and probably, if we had not been in the park, would have thrown herself on my neck. She pressed my hands warmly and laughed; and I laughed too and almost cried with emotion. Questions followed, of the village, of my father, whether I had seen her brother, and so on. She insisted on my looking her straight in the face, and asked if I remembered the gudgeon, our little quarrels, the picnics. . . .

The more refined the more unhappy.

People who live alone always have something on their minds that they would willingly share.