Finally he says, with a sort of a anxious look onto his foreward:

"You don't feel bad, do you Samantha? You haint jealous, are
you?"

"Jealous!" says I, a lookin' him calmly over from head to feet --
it wuz a witherin' look, and yet pitiful, that took in the hull
body and soul, and weighed 'em in the balances of common sense,
and pity, and justice. It wuz a look that seemed to envelop him
all to one time, and took him all in, his bald head, his vest, and
his boots, and his mind (what he had), and his efforts to be
fashionable, and his trials and tribulations at it, and -- and
everything. I give him that one long look, and then I says:

"Jealous? No, I haint jealous."

Then silence rained again about us, and Josiah spoke out (his
conscience was a troublin' him), and he says:

"You know in fashionable life, Samantha, you have to do things
which seem unkind, and Ezra, though a good, worthy man, can't
understand these things as I do."

Says I: "Josiah Allen, you'll see the day that you'll be sorry for
your treatment of Druzilla Balch, and Ezra."

"Oh wall," says he, pullin' up his collar, "I'm bound to be
fashionable. While I can go with the upper 10, it is my duty and
my privilege to go with 'em, and not mingle in the lower classes