Marianne grew into her wounded heart, right from childhood it beckoned to her. It was a big heart, where one could struggle to touch the edges. It was wide-ranging, a heart that encompassed many landscapes, a sensitive heart open to the wounded. Size was not the problem. No, Marianne’s problem was an inability to give her heart away.
Marianne had packed her heart well with love of country, with love of animal, with love of weather. She was a down-to-earth woman, a doer rather than a princess. An industrious person, well she knew the exigencies of a life of the soil rather than the tiled forecourt.
But with people, she was hesitant, unsure, too ready for the rebuff, and when you are ready for that, that is what comes your way. She had twigged to that of late, but knew not how to correct it, until Harry came along. Snap.