"It wouldn't surprise me if he wanted his head when he comes to marrying," he observed.
"Of course you think I am high-handed," she rejoined.
"Well, it don't make any difference to me what you are. And as long as you can manage me," he added, "you needn't worry about not keeping your hand in."
"It's for your own good anyway," she retorted. "You're too easy-going with everybody."
"I know it, honey. I ain't complaining."
He was refilling his pipe from his shabby old pouch of tobacco, and while he prodded the bowl with his thumb, he lifted his eyes and looked at her with his sheepish smile.
"I heard 'em talking about Jason Greylock yesterday at the store," he said.
She made a gesture of aversion. "What did they say?"
"Not much that I can recollect. Only that he is too lazy to come for his mail. He has buried himself in that house in the woods across Whippernock River, and he sometimes lets a whole month go by without coming to the post office."
"Perhaps he hasn't any way of getting over."