“Do you know, Gage, I think that for all our bad moments that we are really happier than most people?”
“There’s no one in the world, dear, as happy as I am at this moment.”
“And it isn’t just because I’m—”
He bent his head to her, stifling her sentence.
“You mustn’t talk—don’t say it. It isn’t because of anything. It just is.”
“I know. And when it is—it swallows up the times when it isn’t.”
“Hush, sweetheart. Let’s not—talk. Let’s just rest.”
He felt her grow even easier in his arms. All the instinct for poetry in him, starved, without vehicle, sought to dominate the relentlessness of her mind, working, working in its tangles of thought. The meaning of his inexpressible love for her must come through his arms, must be compelling, tender. They sat together in the big chair enfolded in peace. And the same little secret thought ran from one to the other, comforting them. This is the best.