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Updated: June 13, 2025
He was ashamed of Charity Coe, too, for squandering her prime and her pride. He was enraged at her blindness to Pete Cheever's duplicity or her complacency with it. He hated Charity for a while nearly. At any rate he was ashamed of her, ashamed of the world, in a rebel mood. As he stood wind-blown and spray-flogged and glad to be beaten, a shabby old carriage went by.
How far off it seemed since she had been called "Miss"! She had been a girl when Cheever's written and spoken words inflamed her. They blazed now as she had blazed. Into that holocaust had gone her youth, her illusions, her virginity, her bridehood, her wifely trust. And all that was left was a black char. She came upon letters from Jim Dyckman, also, a few.
But when she heard Cheever come home at midnight and go to his room without speaking to her she felt a grim resentment toward him that was like a young hate with a big future. Every night Charity received a typewritten document describing Cheever's itinerary for the day.
Our main dependence for fuel was peat, or turf, as John Cheever called it, and to keep the rooms warm with this low-grade fuel, the fires had to be renewed every five or six hours. Another of John Cheever's self-imposed tasks was the care of cranks. Though somewhat peculiar himself he had no use for odd fish queer folk and the like and kept a sharp look-out for erratic strangers.
He tried to turn his huge grunt into a laugh. He was at least not to be guilty of assaulting a weakling. Dyckman was a bit of a boxer, too. Like most rich men's sons, he was practised in athletics. The gentleman of our day carries no sword and no revolver; he carries his weapons in his gloves. Dyckman acknowledged Cheever's skill and courage by deploying and falling back. He sparred a moment.
She was like a tigress in a wicker cage, growing hungrier, lither, more gracefully fierce. People who do not use their beauty lose it, and Charity had lost much of hers in her vigils and labors in the hospitals, and it had waned in her humiliations of Cheever's preference for another woman.
Her answers were jumbled with his questions his voice terrified, hers victorious. "I've kept it a secret for months, because I was afraid of you. It's my right. It's too late to do anything now. And now we'll see whether you love me or not and how much, if any." There was again silence. Charity could hardly tolerate the suspense. Both she and Zada were hanging breathlessly on Cheever's answer.
But Cheever's traditions did not incline to such methods. He had the fisting habit. He did not feel called toward clinching or choking, twisting, tripping, knifing, swording, or sandbagging. His wrath expressed itself, and gaily, in the play of the triceps muscle. For mobility he used footwork and headwork.
Phillips' influence was supreme and the coalition was declined. The Woman's Rights Convention met in Dr. Cheever's church, May 10, 1866, with a large audience present. It was their first meeting since before the war, and while it had many elements of gladness, yet it was not unmixed with sorrow. Mr.
Cheever's divorce, but she found that Jim was unresponsive to her gibes. This did not sweeten her heart toward Charity. Kedzie was hungry for friends and playmates, but she could not find them among the new acquaintances she made. She saw curiosity in all their eyes, patronage in those who were cordial, and insult in those who were not effusive.
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