She is in my thoughts day and night , she dwells in my dreams . O , Sylvia , I love you , my sweet ! A week later there was another entry : July Seventeenth . I am afraid . To-day I met Sylvia 's eyes . In them was a look which at first stirred my heart to its deeps with tumultuous delight , and then I remembered . I must spare her that suffering , at whatever cost to myself . I must not let myself dwell on the dangerous sweetness of the thought that her heart is turning to me . What would be the crowning joy to another man could be only added sorrow to me . Then : July Eighteenth . This morning I took the train to the city . I was determined to know the worst once for all . The time had come when I must . My doctor at home had put me off with vague hopes and perhapses . So I went to a noted physician in the city . I told him I wanted the whole truth -- I made him tell it . Stripped of all softening verbiage it is this : I have perhaps eight months or a year to live -- no more ! I had expected it , although not quite so soon . Yet the certainty was none the less bitter . But this is no time for self-pity .
It is of XXXXX I must think now .
Sylvia cost day eyes first months night perhapses verbiage year