As far back as Jack could
remember, this woman had tyrannized over him and humbled his
self-esteem. In childhood she had leveled with a blow the sand castles
he built on the beach for her delight, and ever since she had contrived
to raze to the ground his less tangible castles,--dream-castles where
he saw her the mistress of his lonely fireside. Yet despite her
exasperating capriciousness, Jack had never wavered in his allegiance,
not a whit. Long ago he had made up his mind that Sarah Libbie was the
one woman in the world for him, and he had never seen cause to alter
that verdict. Nor did he entertain any doubt that Sarah Libbie's
sentiments coincided with his own, even though she did cloak her
preference beneath so many intricate and misleading devices of
femininity. It was not fear of the thundering _No_ that hindered Jack
from proclaiming his affection; it was merely the physical
impossibility of putting his heart into intelligible and coherent
phraseology when Sarah Libbie's bewitching gaze was upon him. He could
meet all comers in a political argument, could hold his own against the
banter of the village gossips; he could even defy Willie and his
counsel; but to address Sarah Libbie on a matter so tender and of such
vital import was an ordeal so overwhelming that it caused his tongue to
cleave to the roof of his mouth, and his pulse almost to cease to beat.
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