And I suppose it is mixed up with all this that I could not make love easily and naturally to Rachel. I could not write love-letters to her. There is a quality in these , I know, seeing that I was now resolved to marry her, but that is the quality, that is the mixed of life. We overcome the greater things and are conscience-stricken by the details.  
I wouldn't, even at the price of losing her—and I was now anxious not to lose her—use a single phrase of that did not come out of me almost in spite of myself. At any rate I would not cheat her. And my offer of marriage when at last I sent it to her from Chicago was, as I remember it, almost business-like. I soon enough for that letter in ten thousand sweet words that came of themselves to my lips. And she paid me at any rate in my own coin when she sent me her answer by cable, the one word "Yes."
 
And indeed I was already in love with her long before I wrote. It was only a of giving her a single undeserved cheapness that had held me back so long. It was that and the perplexity that Mary still gripped my feelings; my old love for her was there in my heart in spite of my new passion for Rachel, it was blackened perhaps and ruined and changed but it was there. It was as if a new burnt now in the ampler of an old volcano, which showed all the more and sorrowful and

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