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Rh one woman in fifty marries the man she likes—and though it may be safest—why I could never understand—it is not pleasantest to begin with a little aversion. Let us just go through a day in married life. First, an early breakfast—for the husband is obliged to go out. On the miseries of early rising, like those of the country, I need not dwell: they are too well known. He reads the newspaper, and bolts his roll—she takes care that Miss Laura does not dirty her frock, and that Master Henry does not eat too much; he goes to his office or counting-house—she to market—for remember I am speaking of a good wife—some pounds of beef or mutton are to be ordered at the butcher's, the baker has charged an extra loaf, and the greengrocer has to be paid four shillings and two pence. On her return home, there is the housemaid to be scolded for not scouring the front bed-room—and the cook's conduct requires animadversion for yesterday's underdone veal. Perhaps, in the course of the morning, Mrs. Smith calls with an account of Mrs. Johnson's elegant new pelisse; and when Mons. le Mari returns to dinner, he suffers the full weight of the discontent one woman's new dress never fails to inspire in another. Evening comes, and