have the rest of the world to do whatever the notion struck you to do," Mrs. Brassfield said.
She said it with a sigh, so hopeless and sad that Dunham knew at once she had no vision of a better day. She brought her stack of corn cakes, which she had accumulated on a sort of percentage basis, adding one to her own pile out of the three she cooked on the griddle at each round, to the table and sat down to her break fast.
Brassfield pushed back, his barrel full. Dunham rose with him. The sun was yellow on the kitchen wall, and the clatter of a horse on the gallop sounded down the road from the south.
