"Woman, your wits are fled!" And so it seemed; for all the answer she could make was to murmur distractedly, "I can't find the key. It'll be turning over to-morrow. She packed her backpack with a change of clothes, some rags, and her old length of piano wire. Of all crafts,—and it was the only craft his poor father, who, to do him justice, was one of the best workmen that ever handled a saw or drove a nail, could never understand,—of all crafts, I say, to be an honest man is the master-craft. ” “That is so,” Anna admitted. Old farmhouses loomed as they whizzed by, left behind in the gray like mourners. The tension was palpable.
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