Rose, Blanche, and Violet, Volume I by George Henry Lewes

Although you have not answered my letters, Frank, I must write to you once more, if only to gratify that _besoin d'epanchement_ which all lovers feel. Were I a century or two older, I might carve my Blanche's name on every tree, _comme cela se pratiquait autrefois_; but being a frock-coated-nineteenth-century prosaic creature, I am condemned to write on unsentimental Bath post, that which should be confided only to the trees.

You will doubtless raise those wondering eyebrows at the sight of the name Blanche. It is not an erratum for Violet, I assure you; I have given up all thoughts of that high-spirited, imperial, but imperious creature. I looked into my heart and found I loved her not. She is evidently hurt at my inconstancy; but, on nearer acquaintance, I found Blanche so infinitely preferable, that I could not help making the comparison. Fortunately I had not gone too far to recede, and the haughty girl will, I dare say, soon be consoled.