For it had been his own failure, he knew that now. He could not bear to face the Visitor, knowing how he had failed. Reverend Thrower opened the door of the church and walked slowly, fearfully inside. I know what you 'was just.' Poor little Armor, you just pat him like a little boy and he'll feel better. See? You don't even believe your own husband. They might like a man they laughed at, but they wouldn't respect him, and they wouldn't vote for him. Come the time when the Wobbish country was made a state, they'd tell that story at every polling place. Never to his face, of course, cause there was hardly a soul between Lake Canada and the Noisy River who didn't owe him money or need his maps to prove their claims. They'd be laughing behind their hands, all right. How Armor-of-God Weaver, storekeeper for the western country, future governor, got throwed right off a porch into the snow by his old father-in-law. Soon enough the tale would be all up and down the Wobbish. He was shamed afore his own wife, cause sooner or later she'd hear the tale from one of those children. He probably lost his future in politics, but that was nothing compared to this: his own wife did witchery in his own home, and she did it against him, and he had no defense against it. Everything he'd been afraid of came true today. Her fending was so strong he staggered back, he headed for the door, he opened it and ran outside in just his shirt. He couldn't even think of taking a step toward her. He couldn't fall on his knees before her.
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