Having settled these things to the satisfaction of their
desires and their consciences, they went to bed well pleased with
the day.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE. MARIE'S SIDE OF IT
We all realize keenly, one time or another, the abject poverty
of language. To attempt putting some emotions into words is like
trying to play Ave Maria on a toy piano. There are heights and
depths utterly beyond the limitation of instrument and speech
alike.
Marie's agonized experience in Alpine--and afterward--was
of that kind. She went there under the lure of her loneliness,
her heart-hunger for Bud. Drunk or sober, loving her still or
turning away in anger, she had to see him; had to hear him speak;
had to tell him a little of what she felt of penitence and
longing, for that is what she believed she had to do. Once she
had started, she could not turn back. Come what might, she would
hunt until she found him. She had to, or go crazy, she told
herself over and over. She could not imagine any circumstance
that would turn her back from that quest.
Yet she did turn back--and with scarce a thought of Bud. She
could not imagine the thing happening that did happen, which is
the way life has of keeping us all on the anxious seat most of
the time.
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