You'll never be guided by me—never!" "Indeed, my love, you're entirely mistaken," returned the carpenter, endeavouring to deprecate his wife's rising resentment by the softest looks, and the meekest deportment. But from the first her rather old-fashioned conception of life had jarred with the suburban atmosphere, the High School spirit and the memories of the light and little Mrs. Women to me are something so serene, so fine, so feminine, and politics are so dusty, so sordid, so wearisome and quarrelsome. It seemed to show a want of affection, to be a deliberate and unmerited disregard, to justify the reprisal of being hurt. But he was now too deeply moved to trace a certain unsatisfactoriness to its source in a mixture of metaphors. "To be lonely! What is physical torture, if someone who loves you is nigh? But to be alone … as I am!… yes, and as you are! Oh, you haven't told me, but I can see with half an eye. Do not believe it, Madam.
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