"If you see it so bitter clear, perhaps you could alter it," she said.
"No, no. We can't alter it. I can't be different; you can't be different. It would only be pretending to alter, and pretence could bring no content to either of us. But time—time may make us different. We'll grow numb as we grow old."
Margery was indignant. She restrained tears with difficulty.
"I've prayed for a lot of things," she said. "I never thought to pray to grow old."
"Changes are coming," he replied. "The children will go out into the world."
"Then perhaps you'll have a little of the peace you thirst for."
"I'm too selfish ever to get peace," he replied. "That's the crux and curse of loving a woman as I've loved you. Love and peace can't walk together. You don't understand that. No matter. It only means that if half of you is getting what it wants, then the other half cannot. The knot is there. We can't be happy together, and it's still more certain I can't be happy apart. But you could. That's the difference."
"And you think I might be happy, knowing you weren't? Why d'you say that? What have I done to sink below you in love?"
"I don't know—I wish I did," he answered.
"And you spend your whole life trying to find out," she retorted. "And so you waste your life, because there's nothing to find out."