His eyes was kinder rolled, and he looked so wilted and uncomfortable, that I says to him in still more pityin’ accents,
“Haint you got wind on your stummuck, for if you have, peppermint essence is the best stuff you can take, and I will get you some.”
“Wind!” he almost shouted, “wind! no, it is not wind,” he spoke so deleriously that he almost skairt me, but I kep’ up my placid demeaner, and kep’ on knittin’.
“Wimmen,” said he, “I would right the wrongs of your sect if I could. I bear in my heart the woes and pains of all the aching female hearts of the 19 centurys.”
My knittin’ dropped into my lap, and I looked up at him in surprise, and I says to him respectfully,
“No wonder you groan and sithe, it must hurt awfully.”
“It does hurt,” says he, “but it hurts a sensitive spirit worse to have it mistook for wind.”
He see my softened face, and he took advantage of it, and went on.
“Woman, you have been married, you say, goin’ on 15 years; hain’t you never felt slavish in that time, and felt that you would gladly unbind yourself?”
“Never!” says I firmly, “never! I don’t want to be unbound.”