I often recall those tears, and I realize now she must have known she was doomed: Marceline was mourning other springtimes. I suppose too that there are strong joys for the strong, and weak joys for the weak who would be injured by the stronger ones. Marceline was overwhelmed by the mildest enjoyment; anything more intense was intolerable to her. What she called happiness I called rest, and I neither could nor would rest.
