CHAPTER XVTHAT December she was in love with her husband.
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She romanticized herself not as a great reformer but as the wife of a country physician. The realities of the doctor's household were colored by her pride.
Late at night, a step on the wooden porch, heard through her confusion of sleep; the storm-door opened; fumbling over the inner door-panels; the buzz of the electric bell. Kennicott muttering "Gol darn it," but patiently creeping out of bed, remembering to draw the covers up to keep her warm, feeling for slippers and bathrobe, clumping down-stairs.
From below, half-heard in her drowsiness, a colloquy in the pidgin-German of the farmers who have forgotten the Old Country language without learning the new:
"Hello, Barney, wass willst du?"
"Morgen, doctor. Die Frau is
