She thinks:

I’m no good to anybody in person. 

 

In person, you can overwhelm me physically, in person, you can silence my words.

Seem eager to own me.

So.

I should correspond only in letters.  Freely, unfettered.  There you know nothing of my fading beauty, of my trouble with living.  Perhaps you hear my voice, or what you remember of it.  Perhaps the musicality carries over in the pretty arrangements of my words.

Perhaps you will think me better than I am.

Perhaps I am better than I think I am.

The letters will be sent by sparrow.  Dropping down, he will land, blinking.  A note will release from his beak.  Should you be inclined to respond, he will wait for you, and then return to me.

This is how it shall be done, she thinks.