Every time they passed by, she would invite them over to the Marsh for dinner. She wanted children around her. Of her sons, she was almost afraid. She could see the somber passion, desire, and dissatisfaction in them, and she didn't want to see it anymore. Even Fred, with his blue eyes and heavy jaw, troubled her. There was no peace. He wanted something, he wanted love, passion, and he couldn't find them. But why must he trouble her? Why must he come to her with his seething and suffering and dissatisfactions? She was too old. Tom was more restrained, reserved. He kept his body very still. But he troubled her even more. She couldn't help but see the black depths of disintegration in his eyes, the sudden glance upon her, as if she could save him, as if he would reveal himself. And how could age save youth? Youth must go to youth. Always the storm! Could she not lie in peace these years, in the quiet, apart from life? No, always the swell must heave upon her and break against the barriers. Always she must be embroiled in the seethe and rage and passion, endless, endless, going on forever. And she wanted to draw away. She wanted at last her own innocence and peace. She didn't want her sons to force upon her any more the old brutal story of desire and offerings and deep, deep-hidden rage of unsatisfied men against women. She wanted to be beyond it all, to know the peace and innocence of age. She had never been a woman to work much. So now she would often stand...
(Note: The text appears to mix narrative content with unrelated marketing phrases. The translation focuses on the narrative portion.)