They eye me. They bore a hole in my wedding finger because it is bare, and they measure my belly like tailors, to weave a juicy bit of gossip.

You’re in a bad way, aren’t you my dear? You’re in quite a spot?

Oh no, thank you, I’m all right, I’m fine. A little short of cash, maybe.

If there’s anything you’d like to tell me, you can trust me, you know. I’ve been around, my husband and I, we’ve been around.

Oh no, thank you, I’m fine.

I don’t like to say anything but it was rather queer, you know, the way you arrived and everything. You know how people will talk, and then you don’t look more than a kid.

Oh, I’m old, I’m 23.

Really! I wouldn’t have thought it. I’m 35. I have a bedroom suite and a parlour suite and lace doilies and a mahogany rack for magazines: we’re ambitious, my husband and I.

I heard the neighbours’ daughters talking: Under the moon, he! he! he! What were you doing parking in the bend in the road?

Oh! I’m not at all sexy, I get so bored necking, but I don’t like to hurt their feelings. It’s different with of my girl-friends, you know, they have lots of self-control, you wouldn’t believe it. I don’t know what it is with me, I guess I’m just built that way.

Witches were burnt at the stake, all over New England, just for love, just for wearing the lineaments of gratified desire.