Summarize the following text to main points and sub-points and make detailed explain for them:

od to make you ugly, like me, so as the men wouldn't ha' run 
after you, we might have kept to our own family, and had nothing to do 
with folks as have got uneasy blood in their veins." 
"Oh, don't say so, Priscilla," said Nancy, repenting that she had called 
forth this outburst; "nobody has any occasion to find fault with Godfrey. 
It's natural he should be disappointed at not having any children: every 
man likes to have somebody to work for and lay by for, and he always 
counted so on making a fuss with 'em when they were little. There's 
many another man 'ud hanker more than he does. He's the best of 
husbands." 
"Oh, I know," said Priscilla, smiling sarcastically, "I know the way o' 
wives; they set one on to abuse their husbands, and then they turn round 
on one and praise 'em as if they wanted to sell 'em. But father'll be 
waiting for me; we must turn now." 
The large gig with the steady old grey was at the front door, and Mr. 
Lammeter was already on the stone steps, passing the time in recalling to 
Godfrey what very fine points Speckle had when his master used to ride 
him. 
"I always would have a good horse, you know," said the old gentleman, 
not liking that spirited time to be quite effaced from the memory of his 
juniors. 
"Mind you bring Nancy to the Warrens before the week's out, Mr. Cass," 
was Priscilla's parting injunction, as she took the reins, and shook them 
gently, by way of friendly incitement to Speckle. 
"I shall just take a turn to the fields against the Stone-pits, Nancy, and 
look at the draining," said Godfrey. 
"You'll be in again by tea-time, dear?" 
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"Oh, yes, I shall be back in an hour." 
It was Godfrey's custom on a Sunday afternoon to do a little 
contemplative farming in a leisurely walk. Nancy seldom accompanied 
him; for the women of her generation—unless, like Priscilla, they took to 
outdoor management—were not given to much walking beyond their 
own house and garden, finding sufficient exercise in domestic duties. So, 
when Priscilla was not with her, she usually sat with Mant's Bible before 
her, and after following the text with her eyes for a little while, she would 
gradually permit them to wander as her thoughts had already insisted on 
wandering. 
But Nancy's Sunday thoughts were rarely quite out of keeping with the 
devout and reverential intention implied by the book spread open before 
her. She was not theologically instructed enough to discern very clearly 
the relation between the sacred documents of the past which she opened 
without method, and her own obscure, simple life; but the spirit of 
rectitude, and the sense of responsibility for the effect of her conduct on 
others, which were strong elements in Nancy's character, had made it a 
habit with her to scrutinize her past feelings and actions with self-
questioning solicitude. Her mind not being courted by a great variety of 
subjects, she filled the vacant moments by living inwardly, again and 
again, through all her remembered experience, especially through the 
fifteen years of her married time, in which her life and its significance 
had been doubled. She recalled the small details, the words, tones, and 
looks, in the critical scenes which had opened a new epoch for her by 
giving her a deeper insight into the relations and trials of life, or which 
had called on her for some little effort of forbearance, or of painful 
adherence to an imagined or real duty—asking herself continually 
whether she had been in any respect blamable. This excessive 
rumination and self-questioning is perhaps a morbid habit inevitable to 
a mind of much moral sensibility when shut out from its due share of 
outward activity and of practical claims on its affections—inevitable to a 
noble-hearted, childless woman, when her lot is narrow. "I can do so 
little—have I done it all well?" is the perpetually recurring thought; and 
there are no voices calling her away from that soliloquy, no peremptory 
demands to divert energy from vain regret or superfluous scruple. 
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There was one main thread of painful experience in Nancy's married life, 
and on it hung certain deeply-felt scenes, which were the oftenest revived 
in retrospect. The short dialogue with Priscilla in the garden had 
determined the current of retrospect in that frequent direction this 
particular Sunday afternoon. The first wandering of her thought from the 
text, which she still attempted dutifully to follow with her eyes and silent 
lips, was into an imaginary enlargement of the defence she had set up for 
her husband against Priscilla's implied blame. The vindication of the 
loved object is the best balm affection can find for its wounds:—"A man 
must have so much on his mind," is the belief by which a wife often 
supports a cheerful face under rough answers and unfeeling words. And 
Nancy's deepest wounds had all come from the perception that the 
absence of children from their hearth was dwelt on in her husband's 
mind as a privation to which he could not reconcile himself. 
Yet sweet Nancy might have been expected to feel still more keenly the 
denial of a blessing to which she had looked forward with all the varied 
expectations and preparations, solemn and prettily trivial, which fill the 
mind of a loving woman when she expects to become a mother. Was 
there not a drawer filled with the neat work of her hands, all unworn and 
untouched, just as she had arranged it there fourteen years ago—just, but 
for one little dress, which had been made the burial-dress? But under 
this immediate personal trial Nancy was so firmly unmurmuring, that 
years ago she had suddenly renounced the habit of visiting this drawer, 
lest she should in this way be cherishing a longing for what was not 
given. 
Perhaps it was this very severity towards any indulgence of what she held 
to be sinful regret in herself, that made her shrink from applying her own 
standard to her husband. "It is very different—it is much worse for a man 
to be disappointed in that way: a woman can always be satisfied with 
devoting herself to her husband, but a man wants something that will 
make him look forward more—and sitting by the fire is so much duller to 
him than to a woman." And always, when Nancy reached this point in 
her meditations—trying, with predetermined sympathy, to see 
everything as Godfrey saw it—there came a renewal of self-
questioning. Had she done everything in her power to lighten Godfrey's 
privation? Had she really been right in the resistance which had cost her 
so much pain six years ago, and again four years ago—the resistance to 
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her husband's wish that they should adopt a child? Adoption was more 
remote from the ideas and habits of that time than of our own; still 
Nancy had her opinion on it. It was as necessary to her mind to have an 
opinion on all topics, not exclusively masculine, that had come under her 
notice, as for her to have a precisely marked place for every article of her 
personal property: and her opinions were always principles to be 
unwaveringly acted on. They were firm, not because of their basis, but 
because she held them with a tenacity inseparable from her mental 
action. On all the duties and proprieties of life, from filial behaviour to 
the arrangements of the evening toilette, pretty Nancy Lammeter, by the 
time she was three-and-twenty, had her unalterable little code, and had 
formed every one of her habits in strict accordance with that code. She 
carried these decided judgments within her in the most unobtrusive way: 
they rooted themselves in her mind, and grew there as quietly as grass. 
Years ago, we know, she insisted on dressing like Priscilla, because "it 
was right for sisters to dress alike", and because "she would do what was 
right if she wore a gown dyed with cheese-colouring". That was a trivial 
but typical instance of the mode in which Nancy's life was regulated. 
It was one of those rigid principles, and no petty egoistic feeling, which 
had been the ground of Nancy's difficult resistance to her husband's 
wish. To adopt a child, because children of your own had been denied 
you, was to try and choose your lot in spite of Providence: the adopted 
child, she was convinced, would never turn out well, and would be a 
curse to those who had wilfully and rebelliously sought what it was clear 
that, for some high reason, they were better without. When you saw a 
thing was not meant to be, said Nancy, it was a bounden duty to leave off 
so much as wishing for it. And so far, perhaps, the wisest of men could 
scarcely make more than a verbal improvement in her principle. But the 
conditions under which she held it apparent that a thing was not meant 
to be, depended on a more peculiar mode of thinking. She would have 
given up making a purchase at a particular place if, on three successive 
times, rain, or some other cause of Heaven's sending, had formed an 
obstacle; and she would have anticipated a broken limb or oth

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