"I used to say thar never was anybody so set as my
first husband till I got my second."
"I ain't had so wide an experience as you," replied Sarah, as if
she were condescending to an acknowledged lapse in virtue. "Thar's a
difference between marryin' for the sake of matrimony, which is right
an' proper accordin' to Scripture, an' marryin' for the sake of a man,
which is a sign of weakness in a woman."
"You ain't a friend to the feelin's of natur, ma'am," remarked old Adam,
with respect.
"No, thar never was much natur in me," responded Sarah, lifting her
bombazine skirt with both hands as she stepped over a puddle. Her
floating crape veil, bought ten years after her husband's death, with
the money made from her turkeys, represented the single extravagance
as well as the solitary ambition of her life. Even as a child she had
longed ardently to wear crape, and this secret aspiration, which had
smouldered in the early poverty-stricken years of her marriage, had
burst suddenly into flame when she found herself a widow. During the
burial service over her husband, while she had sat bowed in musty
black cotton, which had been loaned her by a neighbour, she had vowed
earnestly that she would wear weeds yet for Abner before she died.
Pages:
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435