After the tall dark girl came to know Doctor Reefy it seemed to her that she never wanted to leave him again.  She went into his office one morning and without her saying anything he seemed to know what had happened to her.

In the office of the doctor there was a woman, the wife of the man who kept the bookstore in Winesburg.  Like all old-fashioned country practitioners, Doctor Reefy pulled teeth, and the woman who waited held a handkerchief to her teeth and groaned.  Her husband was with her and when the tooth was taken out they both screamed and blood ran down on the woman’s white dress.  The tall dark girl did not pay any attention.  When the woman and the man had gone the doctor smiled.  “I will take you driving into the country with me,” he said.

For several weeks the tall dark girl and the doctor were together almost every day.  The condition that had brought her to him passed in an illness, but she was like one who has discovered the sweetness of the twisted apples, she could not get her mind fixed again upon the round perfect fruit that is eaten in the city apartments.  In the fall after the beginning of her acquaintanceship with him she married Doctor Reefy and in the following spring she died.  During the winter he read to her all of the odds and ends of thoughts he had scribbled on the bits of paper.  After he had read them he laughed and stuffed them away in his pockets to become round hard balls.

MOTHER

Elizabeth Willard, the mother of George Willard, was tall and gaunt and her face was marked with smallpox scars.  Although she was but forty-five, some obscure disease had taken the fire out of her figure.  Listlessly she went about the disorderly old hotel looking at the faded wall-paper and the ragged carpets and, when she was able to be about, doing the work of a chambermaid among beds soiled by the slumbers of fat traveling men.  Her husband, Tom Willard, a slender, graceful man with square shoulders, a quick military step, and a black mustache trained to turn sharply up at the ends, tried to put the wife out of his mind.  The presence of the tall ghostly figure, moving slowly through the halls, he took as a reproach to himself.  When he thought of her he grew angry and swore.  The hotel was unprofitable and forever on the edge of failure and he wished himself out of it.  He thought of the old house and the woman who lived there with him as things defeated and done for.  The hotel in which he had begun life so hopefully was now a mere ghost of what a hotel should be.  As he went spruce and business-like through the streets of Winesburg, he sometimes stopped and turned quickly about as though fearing that the spirit of the hotel and of the woman would follow him even into the streets.  “Damn such a life, damn it!” he sputtered aimlessly.