Ah, no, ah, no, she could not love him.

It had all been a dreadful mistake, and now it was irrevocable; she was bound to this man for life.

If it was as bad as this now, only three weeks after her marriage, how would it be in the years to come?
Year after year, month after month, hour after hour, she was to see this same face, with its salient jaw, was to feel the touch of those enormous red hands, was to hear the heavy, elephantine tread of those huge feet--in thick gray socks.

Year after year, day after day, there would be no change, and it would last all her life.

Either it would be one long continued revulsion, or else--worse than all--she would come to be content with him, would come to be like him, would sink to the level of steam beer and cheap tobacco, and all her pretty ways, her clean, trim little habits, would be forgotten, since they would be thrown away upon her stupid, brutish husband.