"And we've got all this furniture." She moved her head toward the door of the front room and the parlour set that had been Peter's Christmas gift to them two years ago.

"For all it was such a comfort to her to have it, it's as good as new.

It seemed as if she thought you were the only one good enough to sit in it." "Don't, Ellen." "I know, Peter." They were silent a while until the deep wells of grief had stilled in the sense of that sustaining presence.

"I only wanted to be sure I wouldn't be going against her, breaking up the home.

It seems like anything she set such store by oughtn't to stop just because she isn't here to take care of it." They had to come back to that the next day and the next.
"I only want to do what is best for you, Ellen." "I'd be best off if I was making you happy, Peter--and I'd feel such a burden somehow, just boarding." "The rents _are_ cheaper in the suburbs," Peter went so far as to admit.
It was all so inarticulate in him; how could he explain to Ellen the feeling that he had, that settling down to a home with her would somehow put an end to any dreams he had had of a home of his own, persistent but unshaped visions that vanished before the sudden brightening of Ellen's face at his least concession.
"We could have somebody in to clean," she reminded him, "and I hardly ever have to be in bed now." The fact was that Peter had the very place in mind; he had often walked out there on Sundays from Blodgett's; he thought the neighbourhood had a clean and healthy look.