Three hours later he stood
at Lapham's door.
At times what he now wished to do had seemed for ever impossible,
and again it had seemed as if he could not wait a moment longer.
He had not been careless, but very mindful of what he
knew must be the feelings of his own family in regard
to the Laphams, and he had not concealed from himself
that his family had great reason and justice on their side
in not wishing him to alienate himself from their common
life and associations. The most that he could urge to
himself was that they had not all the reason and justice;
but he had hesitated and delayed because they had so much.
Often he could not make it appear right that he should
merely please himself in what chiefly concerned himself.
He perceived how far apart in all their experiences and
ideals the Lapham girls and his sisters were; how different
Mrs. Lapham was from his mother; how grotesquely unlike
were his father and Lapham; and the disparity had not
always amused him.
He had often taken it very seriously, and sometimes he said
that he must forego the hope on which his heart was set.
There had been many times in the past months when he had said
that he must go no further, and as often as he had taken
this stand he had yielded it, upon this or that excuse,
which he was aware of trumping up.
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