There is an innate nature to each being, built into the very architecture of his mind, and Berkhamsted’s nature was predisposed to the blackest strand of worry. Here he was then, in love, loved, sharing a private mental plain with this divine human, his wife, with whom all anxieties and longings and deliberations might be freely shared. If he were to break down like a baby, even, she would no doubt coddle him until he slept and he'd wake rejuvenated and ready once again to do battle with the great injustices of the world. Instead he just lived in constant fear that she’d leave him.
