He never says ANYTHING--never speaks at ALL!' she said.
'You don't know a blessing when you see it,' I told her. 'Blessing!' she
said. 'There's nothing IN the man! He has no DEPTHS! He hasn't any more
imagination than the chair he sits and sits and sits in! Half the time
he answers what I say to him by nodding and saying 'um-hum,' with that
same old foolish, contented smile of his. I'd have gone MAD if it had
lasted any longer!' I asked her if she thought married life consisted
very largely of conversations between husband and wife; and she answered
that even married life ought to have some POETRY in it. 'Some romance,'
she said, 'some soul! And he just comes and sits,' she said, 'and sits
and sits and sits and sits! And I can't bear it any longer, and I've
told him so.'"
"Poor Mr. Beasley," I said.
"_I_ think, 'Poor Ann Apperthwaite!'" retorted my cousin. "I'd like to
know if there's anything NICER than just to sit and sit and sit and sit
with as lovely a man as that--a man who understands things, and thinks
and listens and smiles--instead of everlastingly talking!"
"As it happens," I remarked, "I've heard Mr. Beasley talk."
"Why, of course he talks," she returned, "when there's any real use in
it. And he talks to children; he's THAT kind of man."
"I meant a particular instance," I began; meaning to see if she could
give me any clew to Bill Hammersley and Simpledoria, but at that moment
the gate clicked under the hand of another caller.
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