The Spences always went through.

But Nature, every inch a woman, had made him pay for scorning her.

She had killed no fatted calf for her prodigal.
So here he was, at thirty-five, envying a girl who could carry wood without weariness.

The envy had become acute irritation by the time the wood was stacked and the wood-carrier brought her shining hair and rain-tinted cheeks into the living-room.
"Leg bad again ?" asked Desire casually.
"No--temper." "It's time for tea.

I'll see about it." "You'll take your wet things off first.