He tried to paint them out, but every time he tried it the man
seemed to come back with a sheriff and savagely warned him to let
it stay till the year was up. In some mysterious way the agent
seemed to know every time he brought out the paint pot, and he
was no longer the pleasant-voiced individual who drove the calico
ponies.
As he stepped out into the yard next morning that abominable,
sickening, scrawling advertisement was the first thing that claimed
his glance-it blotted out the beauty of the morning.
Mrs. Ripley came to the window, buttoning her dress at the throat,
a wisp of her hair sticking assertively from the little knob at the
back of her head.
"Lovely, ain't it! An' J've got to see it all day long. I can't look out
the winder, but that thing's right in my face." It seemed to make
her savage. She hadn't been in such a temper since her visit to New
York. "I hope you feel satisfied with it."
Ripley walked off to the barn. His pride in its clean sweet newness
was gone. He slyly tried the paint to see if it couldn't be scraped
off, but it was dried in thoroughly. Whereas before he had taken
delight in having his neighbors turn and look at the building, now
he kept out of sight whenever he saw a team coming.
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