sat in silence, sometimes she asked him a stranger's question: "Did you have nice weather?" "Did you go to the theater?"
"Evelyn, you must tell me what's wrong," he cried, and there was desperation in his voice.
She pushed back her full plate and went into the living room. Her hands twisted and tore her handkerchief.
"Joe, I'm not happy—I want to go away."
"I wanted you to come to Boston"
"Oh, I don't mean that! I mean go away for good."
"But why?"
"I love you—I love you ever so much—and Hope—but I'm so bored, I'm so sick of this life, I hate this place, I'm so tired"
He took her writhing hands in his; he held them still.
"I feel so restless, so nervous, Joe. I can't sleep; I can't stop crying at night when you're asleep. And nothing seems worth doing"
He held her hands in silence, looking at her in suffering pity.
"I'm young, I'm pretty; it's too soon for everything to be over. I don't give a damn about church fairs and growing sweet peas and making dresses for Hope. Oh, Joe, you don't know what the women here are like! Servants and new sweater stitches, and the emotion that goes into deciding whether to have a silk lamp shade or a parchment one. I could scream! I
