I'm
not any star in a rose-colored sky, and I don't want to inspire anybody;
it's too much of a job. I want to be a healthy happy woman and a wife to
a man who can inspire himself and manage me. I want to marry a thin man
and have from five to ten thin children, and when I get to be thirty I
want my husband to want me to be as fat as Aunt Bettie, but not let me.
An inspiration couldn't be fat and I'm always in danger from hot muffins
and chicken gravy. However, if I should undertake to be all the things
Judge Wade said in that letter he wanted me to be to him, I should soon
be skin and bones from mental and physical exercise. Still, he does
live in Hillsboro and I won't let myself know how my heart aches at the
thought of leaving my home--and other things. It's up in my throat and
I seem always to be swallowing it, the last few days.
All the men who write me letters seem to get themselves wound up into a
skyrocket and then let themselves explode in the last paragraph and it
always upsets my nerves. I was just about to begin to cry again over the
last words of the judge when the only bright spot in the day so far
suddenly happened. Pet Buford blew in with the pinkest cheeks and the
brightest eyes I had seen since I looked in the mirror the night of the
dance.
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