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“Ellen, he knew now, would marry him if he chose; but he had been sure for years that he would never marry anyone, and he was sure tonight he would never marry Ellen. 'We'd always be either on the peaks, sublimely happy, or in the bleak valleys of anger and despair,' he told himself; and he knew he would prefer to dwell in a pleasant intervale, one of those lovely spots which so often he had seen along a northern river, where the grassy meadows were dotted with tall graceful elms, and quiet deer came feeding, and a little brook sang near-by, and there were friendly hills all about, and perhaps a few mountains, not too closely seen, visible far away. Yes, it was peace a man wanted. He reflected with an amused smile that Ruth was much more the sort of woman an author ought to marry: self-effacing, strong, serene, with a sense of humor which occasionally revealed itself in her pleasant eyes. But of course there was no question of his marrying Ruth! For that matter, there was no question of his marrying anyone!” — Ben Ames Williams