He wrote poetry about
her, and sacrificed at her shrine his laurels, his ambitious dreams,
even his dissertation.
And then he married her.
The cooper drank too much at the wedding and made an improper speech
about girls in general. But the son-in-law found the old man so
unsophisticated, so amiable, that he egged him on instead of shutting
him up. He felt at his ease among these simple folk; in their midst he
could be quite himself.
"That's being in love," said his friends. "Love is a wonderful thing."
And now they were married. One month--two months. He was unspeakably
happy. Every evening they spent together and he sang a song to her
about the Rose in the Wood, her favourite song. And he talked about
religion and the drama, and she sat and listened eagerly. But she never
expressed an opinion; she listened in silence and went on with her
crochet work.
In the third month he relapsed into his old habit of taking an afternoon
nap. His wife, who hated being by herself, insisted on sitting by him.
It irritated him, for he felt an overwhelming need to be alone with his
thoughts.
Sometimes she met him on his way home from his office, and her heart
swelled with pride when he left his colleagues and crossed the street
to join her.
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