"Want it, I tell you! working under orders this way makes a man feel kind o' feeble."
"How do you think we women get along, Mr. Carpenter?" said Mrs
Boddington, coming up with her cup.
"How, Mis' Boddington?"
"Yes, I'm asking that. A little more, Diana; it's first-rate, and so's the corn. It takes you and your mother!—How do you think we women feel, under orders all the time?"
"Under orders!" said Mr. Carpenter.
"Yes, all the time. How d'you think we feel about it?"
"Must be uncommon powers of reaction," said the farmer. "My wife a'n't anywheres near killed yet."
"Think any one'll ever get that piece of mantua-making under orders?" said Mrs. Boddington, looking towards the place where the frills and rufflings of Miss Masters' drapery stirred in the breeze, with the long light tresses of her unbound hair. The breeze was partly of her own making, as she stirred and turned and tossed her head in talking with Mr. Knowlton; the only one of the company whom she would talk with, indeed. The farmer took a good look at her.
"Wall," said he,—"I should say it was best to do with that kind of article what you would do with the steam from your tea kettle; let it go. 'Tain't no use to try to utilize everything, Mis' Boddington."
"Evan Knowlton acts as if he thought differently."