Right clothes are only right when they fit your job.

Give the boy a chance to find himself.

He's still young, Buck is--still in the gristle." Winona winced at "gristle." It seemed so physiological--almost coarse.
* * * * * A year went by in which Wilbur was perforce left to his self-education, working for Porter Howgill or at the garage or for Sam Pickering as he listed.

"I'm making good money," was his steady rejoinder to Winona's hectoring.
"As if money were everything," wrote Winona in her journal, where she put the case against him.
Then when she had ceased to hope better things for him Wilbur Cowan seemed to waken.

There were signs and symptoms Winona thus construed.