And Nancy was too tired
to walk home; they went home in the rubber-scented dampness of a
surface car.
Sometimes, as she went through the morning routine, the baths,
bottles, dishes, the picking up, the disheartening conferences
over the ice box, she wondered what had become of the old southern
belle, Nancy Barrett, who had laughed and flirted and only a few
years ago, who had been such a strong and pretty and confident
egotist? There was no egotism left in Nancy now, she was only a
busy woman in a world of busy women. She knew backache and
headache, and moods of weary irritation. The cut of her gowns, the
little niceties of table-service or of children's clothing no
longer concerned her. She merely wanted her family comfortable,
fed and housed and clothed, and well. Nancy could advise other
women about the capable handling of children, before her firstborn
was three years old.
They never went to "The Old Hill House" again, but they found a
primitive but comfortable hotel in the Maine woods, for Ned's
second summer, and for several summers after that. Here Nancy
slept and tramped and rested happily, welcoming Bert rapturously
every week-end.
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