My dear, you are for me; I am for you." But she drew back from his outstretched hands.
"No," she said very gently, but with a decision he could not mistake.
She saw more clearly into his mind than he did himself.

The restlessness of the born traveller, the craving for the large and lonely spaces in the outlandish corners of the world, the incurable intermittent fever to be moving, ever moving amongst strange peoples and under strange skies--these were deep-rooted qualities of the man.

Passion might obscure them for a while, but they would make their appeal in the end, and the appeal would torture.

The home would become a prison.

Desires would so clash within him, there could be no happiness.