“No,” says she.
“Why?” says he.
“I dun’no’,” says she.
“Peterson’s there,” says he, “and Bloom.”
“Yes,” says she.
“Their wives done it.”
Mrs. Snell nodded her head.
“Mis’ Snell,” says old Peasley, “don’t you calc’late I got any pride? Don’t you calc’late I got any feelin’s? Say! Do I want folks rushin’ around sayin’ Peasley Snell’s wife says her husband is homely as a squashed tomato? Eh? Well? Maybe,” says he, “I hain’t what you’d call handsome, but b’jing! I don’t have to wear no veil—not when Pete Bloom and Jase Peterson’s around, anyhow. What’ll folks think? Eh?”
“I dun’no’, Peasley,” says his wife.
“I know,” says he. “They’ll say Peasley Snell’s wife don’t love, honor, and obey him, that’s what they’ll say. They’ll say Peasley Snell hain’t of no account in his own family. They’ll say his wife’d rather have any other man in town than him.... And, Mis’ Snell, I hain’t a-goin’ to endure it. Mark me! Your duty is plain before your eyes. You git into that Bazar, Mis’ Snell, and you git my name on that list. And you see to it that your husband has as many votes after his name as Bloom or Peterson. That’s what. Now Mis’ Snell, march.”