human
Leave it to me, he said.
gpt
Everything will be blooming to-morrow like--like a--garden--er--Eden.
human
Come, girl, she began at last;
gpt
Yes--I am.
human
Well, then, look at the thing sensible. In a place like St. Angé, where there ain't women to spare, you either got to be a decent married woman or you ain't. Long as I've lived in St. Angé, and that's been more'n twenty years, I ain't never yet seen a comfortable, respectable, satisfied, old maid--they ain't permitted here, and you know it. In season, of course, you'd marry--that's to be looked for. It chances to be Jude--and after you get over the strangeness, he'll do as well as any other. They are all powerfully alike when they have their senses. The sameness lies in their having their faculties. The only man as was ever different in St. Angé was Timothy Drake. He got smashed on the head by a falling tree up to Camp 3, and his wits was crushed out of him. But do you know, what was left of Tim was as gentle and decent and perticerlar as you'd want to find in any human. He never drank again, never cussed nor stormed, and I've laid it by as an item, that the badness and sameness of men lies in their wits--if you want a companionable, safe man, you've got to turn to sich as are bereft of their senses--and most women is that foolhardy they prefer wits and diviltry, to senselessness and decency.