When I returned I used to be thinking a dozen times a day that some wretched farmer would make love to you and carry you off, and every time my heart sank.

It was on your account that I came back, Maria, came up here from near Boston, three days' journey! The business I had, I could have done it all by letter; it was you I wished to see, to tell you what was in my heart to say and to hear the answer you would give me." Wherever the snow was clear for a few yards, free of dead trees and stumps, and he could lift his eyes without fear of stun-Ning, they were fixed upon Maria; between the woollen cap and the long woollen jersey curving to her vigorous form he saw the outline of her face, downward turned, expressing only gentleness and patience.

Every glance gave fresh reason for his love but brought him no hint of a response.
"This ...

this is no place for you, Maria.

The country is too rough, the work too hard; barely earning one's bread is killing toil.