The machine is alive with happiness.
Rosalie--Rosalie, I could shout for joy! You _do_ love me?
You will be my wife ?" She was white and silent and faint with the joy of it all and the pain of it all.

Joy in the full knowledge that he loved her and had spoken in spite of the cloud that enveloped her, pain in the certainty that she could not accept the sacrifice.

For a long time she sat staring straight down the broad road over which they were rolling.
"Wicker, you must not ask me now," she said at last, bravely and earnestly.

"It is sweet to know that you love me.

It is life to me--yes, life, Wicker.