I was once that kind of a goose myself, and it widened a breach that did
not then exist except in my mind; widened it until at last it became a
real breach--my husband went elsewhere for his companionship. I was too
morbid and finicky and exacting for a healthy man.
Just as the husband of the woman in "Confessions of a Wife," in
_Century_ did. I read that serial each month and feel like shaking that
little simpleton!--she is just the kind of a sentimental hair-splitting
little idiot that I used to be! Instead of getting at her husband's
point of view and enjoying _with_ him, at least sometimes, she insists
on acting the martyr because he will not dawdle around and gush at
her feet.
Whatever is the cause of your trouble the only cure for it is
Common-Sense. Live your own life, cheerily, happily, and enter into your
husband's life so far as you can. Take all the good things that come
your way and rejoice in them, but don't moon around and fuss because you
can't have the sort of love-life described in some sentimental novel.
Your business in life is to LOVE, not to _be_ loved. The latter is a
secondary matter and the first is the thing that brings happiness to
you.
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