Most people have the blindness of new-born things - a not-incurable blindness, the sight being there but its use not known.

...the presence of each other and a lusty love of being, of living and knowing there was tomorrow and God knows how many more tomorrows and each a life and sufficient in itself...

She knew that nothing was ever as overwhelming or final as he seemed to think - that if he would wait, instead of shouting, there'd be less to shout over in the end.

But only in mad people fear goes on constant night and day, wearing one ditch in the mind that all thoughts must travel in.