And then one morning I happened to see in the personal column of one
of the newspapers that a woman named Eliza Shaeffer, of Horner, had
day-old Buff Orpington and Plymouth Rock chicks for sale, and it
started me to puzzling again. Perhaps it had been Horner, and possibly
this very Eliza Shaeffer--
I suppose my lack of experience was in my favor, for, after all, Eliza
Shaeffer is a common enough name, and the "Horn" might have stood for
"hornswoggle," for all I knew. The story of the man who thought of
what he would do if he were a horse, came back to me, and for an hour
or so I tried to think I was Jennie Brice, trying to get away and hide
from my rascal of a husband. But I made no headway. I would never have
gone to Horner, or to any small town, if I had wanted to hide. I
think I should have gone around the corner and taken a room in my own
neighborhood, or have lost myself in some large city.
It was that same day that, since I did not go to Horner, Horner came
to me. The bell rang about three o'clock, and I answered it myself.
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