Passion lies dead; it is a flame that burns out quickly.

The most beautiful face in the world grows indifferent to us when we have sat opposite it every morning at breakfast, every evening at supper, for a brief year or two.
Passion is the seed.

Love grows from it, a tender sapling, beautiful to look upon, but wondrous frail, easily broken, easily trampled on during those first years of wedded life.

Only by much nursing, by long caring- for, watered with tears, shall it grow into a sturdy tree, defiant of the winds, 'neath which Darby and Joan shall sit sheltered in old age.
They had commonsense, brave hearts.

Darby had expected too much.