He grew observant.
"This is bad for you, Imogene," he said, presently.

"Impossible! Your uncle is right.

This wretched cabin doesn't keep out cold or wind; you have to chop wood and carry water, tasks beyond your strength; you're lonely, you're ill at times--" "And Ruth ?" "Well ?" "You know her situation.

Financial, I mean." "I less than any one know it.

Extraordinary, too, now that I think of it," he said, reflectively.