3
As for Rose herself, she is always pleased, without being enthusiastic, and never expresses a wish or a desire.
I sometimes laugh and say:
"You have a weatherproof soul; and your common sense is as starched as your Sunday cap used to be!"
But at heart she saddens me. To keep my interest in her alive, I find myself wishing that she had some glaring fault. And at the same time I am angry with myself for not appreciating the exclusiveness of her affection better. I am actually beginning to think that this extravagant sentiment is fatal to her. I look upon it in her heart as I look upon the great tree in my garden, which interferes with the growth of everything around it: fond as I am of that tree, I consider it something of an enemy.