"Is it hard," said Susan, "to see that death isn't nearly so terrible as life? She's safe and at peace. I've got to live."
Mrs. Tucker, eager for an emotional and religious opportunity, hastened away. Susan went at her wardrobe ironing, darning, fixing buttonholes, hooks and eyes. She drew a bucket of water from the tap in the hall and proceeded to wash her hair with soap; she rinsed it, dried it as well as she could with their one small, thin towel, left it hanging free for the air to finish the job.
It had rained all the night before—the second heavy rain in two months. But at dawn the rain had ceased, and the clouds had fled before the sun that rules almost undisputed nine months of the year and wars valiantly to rule the other three months—not altogether in vain. A few golden strays found their way into that cavelike room and had been helping her wonderfully. She bathed herself and scrubbed herself from head to foot. She manicured her nails, got her hands and feet into fairly good condition. She put on her best underclothes, her one remaining pair of undarned stockings, the pair of ties she had been saving against an emergency. And once more she had the charm upon which she most prided herself—the charm of an attractive look about the feet and ankles. She then took up the dark-blue hat frame—one of a lot of "seconds"—she had bought for thirty-five cents at a bargain sale, trimmed it with a broad dark-blue ribbon for which she had paid sixty cents. She was well pleased—and justly so—with the result. The trimmed hat might well have cost ten or fifteen dollars—for the largest part of the price of a woman's hat is usually the taste of the arrangement of the trimming.
By this time her hair was dry. She did it up with a care she had not had time to give it in many a week. She put on the dark-blue serge skirt of the between seasons dress she had brought with her from Forty-fourth Street; she had not worn it at all. With the feeble aid of the mirror that distorted her image into grotesqueness, she put on her hat with the care that important detail of a woman's toilet always deserves.
She completed her toilet with her one good and unworn blouse—plain white, the yoke gracefully pointed—and with a blue neck piece she had been saving. She made a bundle of all her clothing that was fit for anything—including the unworn batiste dress Jeffries and Jonas had given her. And into it she put the pistol she had brought away from Forty-fourth Street. She made a separate bundle of the Jeffries and Jonas hat with its valuable plumes. With the two bundles she descended and went to a pawnshop in Houston Street, to which she had made several visits.
A dirty-looking man with a short beard fluffy and thick like a yellow hen's tail lurked behind the counter in the dark little shop. She put her bundles on the counter, opened them. "How much can I get for these things?" she asked.
The man examined every piece minutely. "There's really nothing here but the summer dress and the hat," said he. "And they're out of style. I can't give you more than four dollars for the lot—and one for the pistol which is good but old style now. Five dollars. How'll you have it?"
Susan folded the things and tied up the bundles. "Sorry to have troubled you," she said, taking one in either hand.
"How much did you expect to get, lady?" asked the pawnbroker.
"Twenty-five dollars."