” He declared that no book could be satisfactory that left a bad taste in the mouth, however much it seized and interested the reader at the time. “And now,” she said, splintering the surviving piece of coal into indignant flame-spurting fragments with one dexterous blow, “what am I to do? “I’m in a hole!—mess is a better word, expresses it better. “It’s the spring,” he said. Indeed, I've heard him say that, but for his wife, he would shelter her under his own roof. It did not occur to her that save for some accidents of education and character they had souls like her own.
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