It did not
seem possible that before she had really begun to enjoy life it
should be subjected to such a change. She saw that it was obviously
the thing that should happen. If the match had been arranged by the
entire city of Boston it could not have been more obvious. But she
argued with him that marriage was a mutual self-sacrifice, and that
until she felt ready to make her share of the sacrifice it was
impossible for her to consent.
He combated her arguments, which he refused to consider as arguments,
and demolished them one by one. But the objection which he destroyed
before he went to sleep at night was replaced the next day by
another, and his cause never advanced. Each day he found the citadel
he was besieging girt in by new and intricate defences. The reason
was simple enough: the girl was not in love with him. Her objections,
her arguments, her reasons were as absurd as he proved them to be.
But they were insurmountable because they were really various
disguises of the fact that she did not care for him. They were
disguises to herself as well as to him. He was so altogether a good
fellow, so earnest, honest, and desperate a lover that the primary
fact that she did not want his love did not present itself, and she
kept casting about in her mind for excuses and reasons to explain her
lack of feeling.
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