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Patricia followed her into the big, clay-soiled, dusty room, clutching her new smooth wooden tools with nervous fingers. "What you wish, sah?" she said, in a grave voice, as emotionless as that of Jen's. "True, doctor," remarked Jen, keeping his eyes fixed upon the swart face of the other, "and is that all you have to say?".
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"Well, from all my long experience, Molly," she said as she seated herself and began to hem a tea-cloth with long steady stabs, "husbands are just like sticks of candy in different jars. They may look a little different, but they all taste alike, and you soon get tired of them. In two months you won't know the difference in being married to Alfred Bennett and Mr. Carter, and you'll have to go on living with him maybe fifty years. Luck doesn't strike twice in the same place, and you can't count on losing two husbands. Alfred's father was Mr. Johnson's first cousin and had more crotchets and worse. He had silent spells that lasted a week, and altogether gave his family a bad time of it. Alfred looks very much like him." "It doesn't seem to come right," said Patricia, rumpling her hair with the back of one soiled hand and staring ruefully at the lumpy, meaningless group of two stiff figures in modeling-wax that stood stolidly on a thick little board on top of the piano stool. "Do you wish David to marry Isabella Dallas?" "At my house at Deanminster," replied the doctor with great deliberation..
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