 Which doesn't describe how Molly feels towards her husband?
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] When I got home from the office, I was not so much tired as beaten down, but the effect is similar. I got dressed and went into the living room, and wished ardently that my wife Molly were here to tell me why the whole place looked so woebegone. I didn't notice the impending rain storm and had no umbrella when I reached the sidewalk, to find myself confronted with an almost tropical downpour. At the moment of the explosion—if so feeble a thing can be called one—I felt something sting my face and, on touching it, found blood on my hand. During the day, by actual count, I heard the phrase "I'm just spitballing" eight times, and another Madison Avenue favorite, "The whole ball of wax," twelve times. However, my story had been accepted without change because nobody had noticed my absence from the conference room. There you have what is known as the Advertising World, the Advertising game or the advertising racket, depending upon which rung of the ladder you have achieved. Psychiatry tells us that some people are accident-prone; I, on the other hand, seemed recently to be coincidence-prone, fluke-happy, and except for the alarm clock, I'd had no control over what had been going on. I went into our little kitchen to make a drink and reread the directions Molly had left, telling me how to get along by myself until she got back from her mother's in Oyster Bay, a matter of ten days. My wife used to be a trained nurse and she is quite convinced that I cannot take a breath without her. Intimidated, I took my drink into the living room and sat down in front of the typewriter. My drink was gone and I went back to the kitchen and read Molly's notes again to see if they would be like a letter from her. The Sun was out again and a man with a stick was exercising his flock of pigeons. I was thinking about this decorative fact when I saw that as they were making a turn, they seemed to bunch up together. Since our building is usually very well behaved, I was astonished to hear what sounded like an incipient free-for-all, and among the angry voices I recognized that of my neighbor, Nat, a very quiet guy who works on a newspaper and has never, to my knowledge, given wild parties, particularly in the late afternoon.
 wishes he was less clumsy
 wishes he was less clumsy  loves him dearly  worries about him when she's gone  likes taking care of him