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Updated: June 14, 2025
Lemuel made no reply, but his wife smiled bitterly. "I had an idea," the other continued; "but it's a little soon to spring anything. And I don't know but you might prefer it here." "Try me," Bella proclaimed; "that's all I want!" Doret still said nothing of his determination to conquer life in Nantbrook. A swift impulse seized him to take June Bowman by the collar and fling him into the street.
"If you're going to look like this," he admitted, "I'll have to get a move on." When they were first in Nantbrook she had worn a denim apron, and that, too, with all the other differences had seemed to express their new life; but now in yellow silk she was back in the old. Lemuel Doret studied his wife with secret doubt; more than the dress had changed.
Her voice swept into a shrill complaint and abuse of Nantbrook a place, she asserted, of one dead street, without even a passing trolley car to watch. She had no intention of being buried here for the rest of her life. Turning to a cigarette and yesterday's paper she drooped into a sulky shape of fat and slovenly blue wrapper beside the neglected dishes of their insufficient breakfast.
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