In the evening they were both so tired that they were in no mood for conversation, and went to bed early, worn out, harried, nervous, and cross.
Trina was not quite so scrupulously tidy now as in the old days.

At one time while whittling the Noah's ark animals she had worn gloves.

She never wore them now.

She still took pride in neatly combing and coiling her wonderful black hair, but as the days passed she found it more and more comfortable to work in her blue flannel wrapper.

Whittlings and chips accumulated under the window where she did her work, and she was at no great pains to clear the air of the room vitiated by the fumes of the oil stove and heavy with the smell of cooking.