The Lady with the Little Dog
Anton Chekhov
"And why are there no thunderstorms in the winter, father?"

He explained that, too. He talked, thinking all the while that he was going to
see her, and no living soul knew of it, and probably never would know. He had
two lives: one, open, seen and known by all who cared to know, full of relative
truth and of relative falsehood, exactly like the lives of his friends and
acquaintances; and another life running its course in secret. And through some
strange, perhaps accidental, conjunction of circumstances, everything that was
essential, of interest and of value to him, everything in which he was sincere
and did not deceive himself, everything that made the kernel of his life, was
hidden from other people; and all that was false in him, the sheath in which he
hid himself to conceal the truth -- such, for instance, as his work in the
bank, his discussions at the club, his "lower race," his presence with his wife
at anniversary festivities -- all that was open. And he judged of others by
himself, not believing in what he saw, and always believing that every man had
his real, most interesting life under the cover of secrecy and under the cover
of night. All personal life rested on secrecy, and possibly it was partly on
that account that civilised man was so nervously anxious that personal privacy
should be respected.