You know you are--well, I leave your social conscience to say what.
"Yours sincerely,
ANN PENHALLOW."
At breakfast Ann Penhallow sat down to the coffee-urn distributing
cheerful good-mornings. The Squire murmured absently over his napkin,
"May the Lord make us thankful for this and all the blessings of life."
He occasionally varied his grace, and sometimes to Ann's amazement. Why
should he ask to be made thankful, she reflected. These occasional slips
and variations on the simple phrase of gratitude she had come to
recognize as signs of preoccupation, and now glanced at her husband,
anxious always when he was concerned. Then, as he turned to John, she
understood that between his trained belief in the usefulness of
inexorable discipline and an almost womanly tenderness of affection the
heart had somehow won. She knew him well and at times read with ease the
signs of distress and annoyance or resolute decision. Usually he was gay
and merry at breakfast, chaffing the children and eating with the
appetite of a man who was using and renewing his tissues in a wholesome
way. Now he was silent, absent, and ate little. He was the victim of a
combination of annoyances. Had he been wise to commit himself to a
reversal of his sentence? Other and more important matters troubled him,
but as usual where bothers come in battalions it is the lesser
skirmishers who are felt for the moment.
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