My dear Virginia, i must write to you before I go to bed & can, I think, probably think more calmly.
I have not got any very clear recolletction of what I really said to you this afternoon but I am sure you know why I came - I don't mean merely that I was in love but that that together with uncertainty drives one to do these things. Perhaps I was wrong, for before this week I was always intended not to tell you unless I felt sure that you were in love & would marry me. I thought then that you liked me but that was all. I never realized how much I loved you until we talked about my going back to Ceylon. After that I could think about nothing else but you. I got into a state of hopeless uncertainty, whether you loved me ou could ever love me or even like me. God, I hope i shall never spend such a time again as I spent here until I telegraphed. I wrote to you once saying I would speak to you next Monday but then I felt I should be mad if I waited until then to see you. So I wired. I knew you would tell me exactly what you felt. You were exactly what I knew you are & if I hadn't being in love before i would now. It isn't, really it isn't, merely because you are so beautiful - though of course that is a large reason & so it should be - that I love you: it is your mind & your character - I have never know anyone like you in that - won't you believe that?
And now I will do absolutely whatever you want. I don't think you want me to go away, but if you did, I would at once. If not, I don't see why we cannot go on the same as before - I think I can - and then if you do find that you could love me you would tell me.
I hardly know whether I am saying what I mean or feel: I am extraordinarily tired. A dense mist covered the whole of Somerset & the train was late & I had to crawl my way from the station for 3 miles to the house.
Don't you think that the entrance of Walter almost proves the existence of a deity?
Quentin Bell, V. Woolf - A Biography, p. 180-1.