You couldn't come walking up the road and turn in at the gate and knock at the door and say:
"I came to pick up all the scandal and the dirt I can about the Sutton family. I wonder if I might sit down and talk with you."
But you could land in a pasture with a crippled ship and first you'd talk of corn and pasture, of weather and of grass, and finally you'd get around to talking about personal and family matters.
The man had gotten out his wrench now and was tinkering at the ship.
It must almost be time.
Sutton lifted himself on his arms and stared through the close-laced branches of the hazel brush.
John H. Sutton was coming down the hill, a big-bellied man with a trim white beard and an old black hat, and his walk was a waddle with some swagger in it.
XXXV
So this is failure, Eva Armour thought. This is how failure feels. Dry in the throat and heavy in the heart and tiredness in the brain.
I am bitter, she told herself, and I have a right to be. Although I am so tired with trying and with failure that the knife edge of bitterness is dulled.