To the poor carpenter it seemed an endless distance. “So your father brought you here to live in the States?” John asked. She had not made friends with any; so they still eyed her askance. Wild," edged in Quilt. “I’d never have a day of peace again, John. ” And while he talked and watched her as he talked, she answered, and behind her listening watched and thought about him. She possessed it, astonishing fact! She had summoned this energy so continuously during the past four weeks that now it was abiding; she knew that it would always be with her, on guard. This laughter released something that had been striving for expression—her own natural buoyancy. She had been built for canvas and oil-lamps, and this new thingumajig that kept her nose snoring at eight knots when normally she was able to boil along at ten, and these unblinking things they called lamps (that neither smoked nor smelled), irked and threatened to ruin her temper. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. Stanley, at the door. There's the paragraph.
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