She had been fighting down this thought for days: that Hoddy did not care, that he did not love her, that he had mistaken a vagary of the mind for a substance, and now regretted what he had done— married a girl who was not his equal in anything. She looked about, watching a massive green storm cloud building in the west. “I wish they did,” he said, “but they don’t. I don't care how lonesome it is. I love you more. That would not help her. He was perched on the very edge of the leather seat of the coach, his threecornered hat twisting nervously in his hands, and from time to time he passed a tongue over dry lips. Particularly when it was obvious the fellow was one of these pitiful wretches weak enough to allow themselves to be ousted from their inheritances and thus obliged to come seeking succour of their neighbours. He looked eager and flushed and troubled. She attended to that, and then dismissed it as unimportant. "I used to cry myself to sleep, Hoddy, I was so forlorn and lonely.
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