Existence is tedious, anyway. - 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. . . .

I've never been in love. I've dreamt of it day and night, but my heart is like a fine piano no one can play because the key is lost.

If ever my life can be of any use to you, come and claim it.