"How long will the strike last?" she said earnestly. "That's just what I was going to ask you," he said. "I fear it may be months."
Anne sighed deeply.
* * * * *
I took the last sandwich and put down the plate.
"And that," said Anne, "was three weeks ago."
"It has been the same ever since?" I asked, beginning on a new plate.
"Every day. I'm tired of it. I shrink from every new man I meet. I wait nervously for the word 'coal,' feeling that I shall scream when it comes. Oh, I want a vote or something. I don't know what I want, but I hate men! Why should they think that everything they say to us is funny or clever or important? Why should they talk to us as if we were children? Why should they take it for granted that it's our duty to listen always?"
I rose with dignity. Dash it all, who had been doing the listening for the last half-hour?
"You are run down," I said. "What you want is a tonic."
Quite between ourselves, though, I really think—