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Updated: June 17, 2025
Gaylord in the family room where they now sat in unwonted companionship. "Well, Mr. Gaylord," said his wife, "I don't know as you can say but what Marcia's suited well enough." This was the first allusion they had made to the subject, but she let it take the argumentative form of her cogitations. "M-yes," sighed the Squire, in long, nasal assent, "most too well, if anything."
She has her uses in politics, eh?" "M-yes," Bowers answered in half assent; "but she's an uncertain quantity. Like grandsire's musket, she's as likely to kill behind as before."
However, he reached its end cheery in the belief that the sun of Tuesday would light no Waterloo. "I'll win," he said to Bowers. "By no walkover, I admit; but I'll win." "M-yes; I guess, but by the narrowest margin the Demijohn ever gave. The slightest flurry might snow us under." "I'd stake my head on it." "Some who have betted less than that have hedged."
Gaylord went on crocheting the baby a bib, and the smell of the petunia-bed under the window came in through the mosquito netting. "M-yes," he resumed, "I guess you're right. I guess it's only quiet. I guess she ain't any more likely to be satisfied than the rest of us." "I don't see why she shouldn't be," said Mrs.
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