The wind kicked up, blowing dirt into his mouth. He spit out the grit, not caring how ungentlemanly he looked. He had no one to impress now. The windmill groaned in agony. My sentiments exactly. Charlie trudged toward the house simply because he felt like trudging. He was not in a good mood, and his disposition was bound to get fouler as the day progressed. Franny was no longer with him. He had a whole day’s work ahead of him, but it didn’t matter. He was going to have a mug of coffee and grumble for a while. Once inside the glassed-in porch, he gave the cistern a few rough cranks and filled the water bucket. When he set the bucket down in the kitchen, he stubbed his toe on a pickling crock, which made him stumble backward straight into the bucket, overturning it and making water go pretty much everywhere. Guess I have a heavy touch today as well as a heavy heart. After mopping up the mess, he made some coffee and sat down in the chair with a thud. Henry looked up from his pillow by the furnace with big woeful eyes.
