He could not deny that bread and beef made blood, and were cheaper than the port-wine which doctors were in the habit of ordering for this and that delicate person in the neighbourhood; so he was compelled to have recourse to secret discontent.

The attention, the time, and the trifles of money shed upon the flower garden, were hardships easier to bear.

He liked flowers, and he liked to hear the praise of his wife's horticultural skill.

The garden was a distinguishing thing to the farm, and when on a Sunday he walked home from church among full June roses, he felt the odour of them to be so like his imagined sensations of prosperity, that the deception was worth its cost.

Yet the garden in its bloom revived a cruel blow.
His wife had once wounded his vanity.