‘I know,’ said Prudence Sindlesham, sympathy in her tone. Saws, hammers, planes, axes, augers, adzes, chisels, gimblets, and an endless variety of tools were ranged, like a stand of martial weapons at an armoury, in racks against the walls. To be near someone, even someone who made a pretense of friendliness, to hear voices, her own intermingling, would serve as a rehabilitating tonic. For a time it really seemed all-sufficient to her that she should love. “Fearful old fogey! I can’t imagine any sister of yours putting up with him for a moment. ” “We will do it,” he declared. “Dear me!” he said.
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