His manners were not like hers. He
was thirty-one years old that summer. It was rather late in life to
undertake any great change in his manners. They grew naturally out of
one's history and character. He could be kind and gentle in his way. But,
mainly, his manners would have to be like the rugged limbs of the oak.
The grace and elegance of the water-willow and the white birch were not
for him. It saddened him to conclude that he would have to be for a long
time just what he was--crude, awkward, unlearned in the graces and
amenities of cultivated people. He rightly judged that his crudeness
would be a constant source of irritation to the proud Mary. As their
acquaintance progressed the truth of his conviction grew more apparent.
This, however, did not so much concern him as her lack of sympathy with
some of his deepest motives. He decided that, after all, he did not love
her and that to marry her would be committing a great Wrong.
Some of the unhappiest days of his life followed.
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