She continued, still breathlessly: “Two years ago—a marked-down misses’ it was even then—all right if I was on’y sixteen—but now when I’m near twenty-three—and it’s in rags anyhow—and all out of style—and in pitchers you’ve gotta be––”
“They’se plenty pitchers where they want that character—to pass in a crowd, and all that.”
“To pass in a crowd once or twice, yes; but when all you can do is to pass in a crowd, and wear the same old rig every time you pass in it––”
He cut her protests short by saying, with an air of finality: “Well, anyhow I’ve got to have the bucks. Can’t go out till I get ’em. So hand!”
With lips compressed and eyes swimming, she shook her head.
“Better do it. You’ll be sorry if you don’t. I can pass you that tip straight now.”
“If you was laughed at every time you stepped onto the lot––”
“There’s worse things than bein’ laughed at. I can tell you that straight now.”
“Nothin’s worse than bein’ laughed at, not for a girl of my age there ain’t.”
Watching his opportunity he caught her off her guard. Her eyes having wandered to the coat she had just taken off, a worn gray thing with edgings of worn gray squirrel fur, he wrenched back with an unexpected movement the hand that clutched something to her breast, thrust two fingers of his other hand within her corsage, and extracted her pay-envelope.