I want to talk to Mr. Lucy aimed the firearm at Rhea’s chest. Ain’t enough as I’ve got militiamen quartered on me this se’ennight, lazing about all day, eating me out of house and home and drinking my liquor into the bargain. It was the end, she told herself, fiercely. Why? While the front of his mind was busy warning her not to fall into the hopeless miseries of underpaid teaching, and explaining his idea that for women of initiative, quite as much as for men, the world of business had by far the best chances, the back chambers of his brain were busy with the problem of that “Why?” His first idea as a man of the world was to explain her unrest by a lover, some secret or forbidden or impossible lover. ‘I’m not going to arrest you, young Jack—yet. “I saw him stagger and sink down, and the pistol was smoking still in my hand. I guess she used to pick on her for being big and fat.
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