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Young People's Pride by Stephen Vincent Benét
page 32 of 227 (14%)
But absence and meetings of this sort told on them inescapably, and both
being, unfortunately, of a rather high-strung intelligence and youth,
recognized it, no matter how much consciousness might deny it, and wondered
sometimes, rather pitiably, why they couldn't be always at one temperature,
like lovers in poetry, and why either should ever worry or hurt the other
when they loved. Any middle-aged person could and did tell them that they
were now really learning something about love--omitting the small fact that
Pain, though he comes with the highest literary recommendations is really
not the wisest teacher of all in such matters--all of which helped the
constant nervous and psychological strain on both as little as a Latin
exorcism would help a fever. For the very reason that they wished to be
true in their love, they said things in their letters that a spoken word or
a gesture would have explained in an instant but that no printed alphabet
could; and so they often hurt each other while meaning and trying to help
all they could.

Not quite as easy as it had seemed at first--oh, not on your life not,
thought Oliver, rousing out of a gloomy muse. And then there was the
writing he wanted to do--and Nancy's etching--"our damn careers" they had
called them--but those _were_ the things they did best--and neither had had
even tolerable working conditions recently--

Well, sufficient to the day was the evil thereof--that was one of those
safe Bible-texts you seemed to find more and more use for the older you
grew. Bible-texts. It was lucky tomorrow was Sunday when slaves of the
alarm-clock had peace. Oliver straightened his shoulders unconsciously and
turned back to the blank paper. He did love Nancy. He did love Nancy. That
was all that counted.

"Oh, felicitous Nancy!
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