The house was redolent with the smells of cinnamon baking and the stuffed turkey and marinated pork roast. “But why,” he said in the gasping voice of one subduing an agony, and looked at her from under a pain-wrinkled brow, “why did you not tell me this before?” “I didn’t know—I thought I might be able to control myself. Even the most sullen and withdrawn were sensitive to the penetrating nastiness of the fog. ‘Didn’t mean it, love. Still, they bob up occasionally. Tell me that again. He regretted now that in his idle hours he hadn't hunted up one against the rainy day. Guns were impossible. Nature is a mother; her sympathies have always been feminist, and she has tempered the man to the shorn woman.
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