A Page of Confessions: He's going to spill

Corran was sure he was a thought away from complete insanity. He paced the floor of his room, holding the letter he'd just spent four successive hours writing. Four hours was an age in his young lifetime, it seemed, especially given the current state of his nerves.
He left the parson's house so frustrated, confused and angry that he hardly knew what to do with himself. He began by running as fast as he could on the uneven ground of the meadow land towards Lennox estate, but gave that up when he almost tripped over an unsuspecting rock. He kicked the innocent rock and sent it flying. Then he ripped the hat off his head, threw it on the ground and began kicking that.
Honestly.
Any one of his acquaintances would have thought he'd gone mad.
And in all likeliness, he had.

He read over the letter in his hand for the fiftieth time.
It was a confession, but no matter how many times he wrote and rewrote, it sounded like incredibly uncanny filth.
If she read it, she would either laugh or pity him. Perhaps both. And neither were the lesser of two evils.
Corran shuddered.

"Miss Cecilia Moore:
I write this to you with a pen because I am too much of a coward to speak the words to you. I would rather be in blissful ignorance of your reaction to what I might say instead of watching that impression grow on your face as I speak.
In any case, I must tell you, now, before I go completely mad from silence.

The truth is that I love you.

I wonder if you're surprised. Or perhaps you would feign surprise to me if ever I spoke the words for your ears. Because I can't imagine how in my bumbling words and actions I could not have betrayed the truth. It is so evident in my recollections and I often curse myself a complete idiotic mess.
Men often take courage in the pen.
I find that I can too; I would write over and over of all your loveliness, as romantic etiquette allows. I would write what is in my thoughts every time I look at you. And it is all the truth, for you are complete loveliness in words, actions, appearance, character and mind. Loveliness and wit and laughter and life. What man couldn't love a woman who personifies these things?

If I am not a coward and I deserve, somehow, that you should not presently despise me, I will come and see you and hear your answer to all this. Soon.
Until them I'm tortured. I give you leave to pity me.
I said once that I would store up all your pity and use it to my advantage one day.

Yours,
C. Lennox"