He seemed to avoid meeting Anna’s eyes as much as possible. This niggardliness compelled him to cross and recross streets. Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. “Lucy, that’s horrible. " Mechanically raising the potion to her lips, the poor creature swallowed it without hesitation. ” She rose up. "Weep on, reprobate," cried the carpenter, a little softened.
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