"
"What became of your last husband, Mandy?" I asked, willing to be amused
for a time. "Did he die?"
"Nope, didn't die."
"Divorced, eh?"
"Deevorced, hell! No, I tole you, I up an' left him."
"Didn't God join you in holy wedlock, Mandy?"
"No, it was the Jestice of the Peace."
"Ah?"
"Yep. And them ain't holy none--leastways in Missouri. But say, man,
look yere, it ain't God that marries folks, and it ain't Jestices of the
Peace--it's _theirselves_."
I pondered for a moment. "But your vow--your promise?"
"My promise? Whut's the word of a woman to a man? Whut's the word of a
man to a woman? It ain't words, man, it's _feelin's_."
"In sickness or in health?" I quoted.
"That's all right, if your _feelin's_ is all right. The Church is all
right, too. I ain't got no kick. All I'm sayin' to you is, folks marries
_theirselves_."
I pondered yet further. "Mandy," said I, "suppose you were a man, and
your word was given to a girl, and you met another girl and couldn't get
her out of your head, or out of your heart--you loved the new one most
and knew you always would--what would you do?"
But the Sphinx of womanhood may lie under linsey-woolsey as well as
silk.
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