the woman.

I said to Carl: "If that is true, you must have been doing all the
adjusting; I never have had to give up, or fit in, or relinquish one
little thing, so you've been doing it all."

He thought for a moment, then answered: "You know, I've heard that too,
and wondered about it. For I know I've given up nothing, made no
'adjustments.' On the contrary, I seem always to have been getting more
than a human being had any right to count on."

It was that way, even to the merest details, such as both liking
identically the same things to eat, seasoned the identical way. We both
liked to do the identical things, without a single exception. Perhaps
one exception--he had a fondness in his heart for firearms that I could
not share. (The gleam in his eyes when he got out his collection every
so often to clean and oil it!) I liked guns, provided I did not have to
shoot at anything alive with them; but pistols I just plain did not like
at all. We rarely could pass one of these shooting-galleries without
trying our luck at five cents for so many turns--at clay pigeons or
rabbits whirling around on whatnots; but that was as wild as I ever
wanted to get with a gun.

We liked the same friends without exception, the same books, the same
pictures, the same music. He wrote once: "We (the two of us) love each
other, like to do things together (absolutely anything), don't need or
want anybody else, and the world is ours." Mrs. Willard once told me
that if she had read about our life together in a book, she would not
have believed it. She did not know that any one on earth could live like
that. Perhaps that is one reason why I want to tell about it--because it