Anna Marie felt that some vast deposit of good, hard sense lay hidden in George's last remark. On her way to the house she did a good deal of thinking, as girls whose mothers are dead do now and then. The development of her cogitations was told in a remark to her girl friend:
“It's so tiresome, this being a new woman! I am going to give it up. I am afraid, as father says, I am 'not built right.'”
And thus it ended. Marie is exceedingly the olden woman now. She has beaten her sword into a pruning-hook, her bike into a spinning-wheel! She no longer walks with long, decided stride. She is a woman in all things, and will scream and chase a street car as if it were the last going that way for a week, like the tenderest and frailest of her kind. She has retracted as to bloomers. Anna Marie has returned to the agency, and forever abandoned the warpath of a new and manly womanhood.
THE PETERSENS
(Annals of The Bend)
WHEN Chucky came into the little doggery where we were wont to converse, there arrived with him an emphatic odour of kerosene. Also Chucky's face was worn and sad, and his hands were muffled with many bandages. To add to it all Chucky was not in spirits.
“What's the trouble?” I asked.
“We've been havin 'd' run in' of our lives,” replied Chucky, as he called to the barkeeper for his usual bracer, “an' our tenement is just standin' on its nut right now, an' that's for straight!”