I suppose we shall have to go.
And just when we bad got used to New York, and begun to like it.

I don't know where we shall go now; Boston isn't like home any more; and we couldn't live on two thousand there; I should be ashamed to try.

I'm sure I don't know where we can live on it.

I suppose in some country village, where there are no schools, or anything for the children.

I don't know what they'll say when we tell them, poor things." Every word was a stab in March's heart, so weakly tender to his own; his wife's tears, after so much experience of the comparative lightness of the griefs that weep themselves out in women, always seemed wrung from his own soul; if his children suffered in the least through him, he felt like a murderer.