Page:Confessions of a wife (IA confessionsofwif00adamiala).pdf/58

Where shall I find a name for the thing which has befallen me? It seems to me as if there were no name for it in earth or heaven. If I call it joy, I shrink away from the word; and if I call it altogether fear, I know that I do it a wrong: but if I call it hope, I find that my fear pulls my hope down, as the drowning pulls down his rescuer.

Yet I cannot deny that I am happy. I would if I could, for I certainly am not comfortable. Write it down, Marna Trent—fling it into black and white, and let it stare you out of your sane senses. See! How do See! How do you like the looks of it?

You have promised a man that you would be his wife. You have promised—a—man—that you would be his wife. I have been trying to recall the exact language whether I did n't say that I would be his employer's daughter, or possibly his considerate friend, or even his dearest enemy, or almost