"It's not so much that," he evaded, getting up to put a lump of sugar he did not need into his tea, "it's not so much that as it is the everlasting strain of fighting the hands. It would be easier to meet an open rebellion than it is to battle against their sullen ugliness."
It was a fatal want of tact perhaps, characteristic of the race, but then the characteristic is so fine. "You will do whatever I tell you to do," the voice was low and strained, but not wavering. It reached the group by the harness-room door. "Poor little girl," he said kindly. He could not help it that they were the words of a compassionate friend, rather than of an injured husband.
Who feels too reckless to help himself?"
Presently she began again, "Well, he wasn't in it at all. Stone wasn't." Chapter 2