The subsequent years had brought many little Snawdors in their wake, and
Mr. Snawdor, being thus held up by the highwayman Life, ignominiously
surrendered. He did not like being married; he did not enjoy being a
father; his one melancholy satisfaction lay in being a martyr.
Mrs. Snawdor, who despite her preference for the married state derived
little joy from domestic duties, was quite content to sally forth as a
wage-earner. By night she scrubbed office buildings and by day she slept
and between times she sought diversion in the affairs of her neighbors.
Thus it was that the household burdens fell largely upon Nance Molloy's
small shoulders, and if she wiped the dishes without washing them, and
"shook up the beds" without airing them, and fed the babies dill pickles,
it was no more than older housekeepers were doing all around her.
Late in the afternoon of the day of the fight, when the sun, despairing
of making things any hotter than they were, dropped behind the warehouse,
Nance, carrying a box of crackers, a chunk of cheese, and a bucket of
beer, dodged in and out among the push-carts and the barrels of the alley
on her way home from Slap Jack's saloon. There was a strong temptation on
her part to linger, for a hurdy-gurdy up at the corner was playing a
favorite tune, and echoes of the fight were still heard from animated
groups in various doorways. But Nance's ears still tingled from a recent
boxing, and she resolutely kept on her way until she reached the worn
steps of Number One and scurried through its open doorway.
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