She descended meekly over the front wheel. There was not the slightest air of triumph about her until she got inside the gate. Then a smile went slowly across her face. But her husband did not see it. He was looking out of the corners of his eyes at the house across the road. Mrs. Deacon, the druggist’s wife, and all her children had their faces flattened against the window.
Mr. Sybert’s determination kept his head high, but not his spirit.
“God A’mighty!” he groaned. “The whole town’ll know it to-morrow. I’d rather die than face that groc’ry store—after the way I’ve went on about people upholdin’ of her!”
A POINT OF KNUCKLING-DOWN
A POINT OF KNUCKLING-DOWN
IN THREE PARTS
PART I
Emarine went along the narrow hall and passed through the open door. There was something in her carriage that suggested stubbornness. Her small body had a natural backward sway, and the decision with which she set her heels upon the floor had long ago caused the readers of character in the village to aver that “Emarine Endey was contrairier than any mule.”
She wore a brown dress, a gray shawl folded primly around her shoulders, and a hat that tried in vain to make her small face plain. There was a frill of white, cheap lace at her slender throat, fastened in front with a cherry ribbon. Heavy gold earrings with long, shining pendants reached almost to her shoulders. They quivered and glittered with every movement.
Emarine was pretty, in spite of many freckles and the tightness with which she brushed her hair from her face and coiled it in a sleek knot at the back of her head. “Now, be sure you get it just so slick, Emarine,” her mother would say, watching her steadily while she combed and brushed and twisted her long tresses.
As Emarine reached the door her mother followed her down the hall from the kitchen. The house was old, and two or three loose pieces in the flooring creaked as she stepped heavily upon them.