"We'd die," she said, simply.
"So there you are! I know what you mean. I'd die, too. That is, we mightn't die outwardly; but something would be so killed in us that we'd never be really alive again. So why try to pull apart what life has soldered into one?"
"But you don't know!"
"Yes, I do. I know more than you think. I know that the things that trouble you are dreams and that our life together is reality. You'll tell me the dreams as we go on—a little at a time—and I'll show you that you've waked from them. I know there are things to explain; but I know, too, that there's an explanation. But I don't want the explanation yet. I'm—I'm too tired, Jennie. I want to rest. And I can't rest unless we all rest together—you with me—and the girls with us—in a kind of quiet acceptance of the things that have happened—and in the—I hardly know how to express it—but in the tranquillity of love. I wonder if you understand me?"
She murmured:
"I don't know that I understand you, Bob—quite—but I do—I do love you. It's—it's different from love—it's—it's more. It's like—like melting into you—"
"That's love, Jennie. It isn't anything different. It's just—love."
"But you're so big—"
"And you're so little—so wee. Don't you see?—that's it! That's the compensating thing in nature. It's because we're different that we need each other and complete each other. I can't explain it as you'd explain a sum in arithmetic. I only know. You complete me, Jennie. As I've said so often, you're the other half of me—"
"And you're all of me—and more."