With occasional lapses of course: digs in the ribs if one gets too vague or self-sufficient.
They say it is better to travel than to arrive.

It's not been my experience, at least.

The journey of love has been rather a lacerating, if well-worth-it, journey.

But to come at last to a nice place under the trees, with your "amiable spouse" who has at last learned to hold her tongue and not to bother about rights and wrongs: her own particularly.

And then to pitch a camp, and cook your rabbit, and eat him: and to possess your own soul in silence, and to feel all the clamor lapse.