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Updated: May 18, 2025
Knoxwell, the blacksmith's wife, used to hammers and nails, and believing in good, forceful, honest ways of doing things; feeling also a righteous and neighborly indignation against this child, negligent of her worn and lonely mother; "skitin' about the country, makin' believe big and famous. She would let her know the truth, right out plain; it would be good for her."
I've got all over it, and I like the russet a great deal better. I wish you could." "I can't begin again," said Mrs. Argenter. "My life is torn up by the roots, and there is the end of it." It was true. Sylvie felt that it was so, as her mother spoke, and she reproached herself for her own light content. How could her mother make intimacy with Mrs. Knoxwell, the old blacksmith's wife, or Mrs.
"Well 'f I never!" gasped Mrs. Knoxwell, with a sound in her voice as if she had received a blow in the pit of her stomach. "Jest as you please, Marion 'f I ain't no more use!"
Knoxwell by the sudden burst of angry words; for she had not spoken for more than an hour, in which the blacksmith's wife had administered occasional appropriate sentences of stinging condolence and well-meant retrospection. "I wish you would go home!" Every monosyllable was uttered with a desperate, wrathful deliberateness and flinging away of all pretense and politeness.
People don't understand. They won't take us in, all of them. It's just as hard to get into a village, if you weren't born in it, as it is to get into upper-ten-dom. Mrs. Knoxwell called, and looked round all the time with her nose up in a sort of a way, well, it was just like a dog sniffing round for something.
Knoxwell, who was persistently "sitting with her." "There's Frank Sunderline and Ray Ingraham at the gate. She's coming in. They're engaged. It's just out." "What do I care?" cried Marion, fiercely, turning upon her, and astounding Mrs.
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