Nor did she stop when Anne summoned them, and only for short periods during lunch. From the Anderson case and the Labor Movement, she drifted to Russia, to her native village, to the Jewish pogroms, her struggles for an education, her imprisonment under the Czarist system, her escape and flight from Siberia through Sweden to Finland and the United States; her gradual migration westward, from an eastside tenement in New York, through New Jersey, to Chicago, to San Francisco. She talked vehemently but without bitterness. In her long fight for an idea, she had become impersonal.
She ate almost greedily, but neither Anne nor Roger felt that she knew what she ate. She smoked cigarette after cigarette, lighting one from the other, and drank cup after cup of black coffee without noticing that Anne refilled her cup. Anne was considering making more coffee, when at last Katya broke off.
"You're a perfect hostess, Mrs. Barton. I don't believe you've said a word."
Anne flushed. Evidently this woman had not expected her interest.
"It's fascinating," she said, with just a touch of primness that brought an odd look to Katya's eyes. Roger felt uncomfortable.
"We've never had a chance before to get it first-hand," he said quietly, and saw Katya's eyes twinkle. She rose and, to Roger's embarrassment, ran her hand over his thick, wavy hair.
"You're a nice boy."
She put on her things, waited a moment for Roger to join her, but when he made no motion, shook hands with both and went clumsily down the stairs without looking back.
"Almost as conceited as Hilary Wainwright, in her own way, isn't she?" Anne said demurely.
Roger laughed. "You're a wiz. I hope you never take a dislike to me."