"I'm going to cry," she said, half aloud. "And I won't!"
Yet she would and did, and she certainly was crying when the door of the Brain Workers' Exchange opened again and closed with a joyous click behind the young woman who had the unusually good references.
"Oh—I'm sorry," said the young woman, looking at Mary.
Mary hated herself and loathed the weakness of her tears.
"I saw you inside," continued the person named Norcross. "You've had bad luck, of course."
It was not a question, but an assertion. Mary fought against a sob.
"N-no luck," she managed.
"Never mind. You'll have better luck very soon."
"I—I'll never have any luck. I'm doomed. I—oh, it's so silly of me—but I haven't any references."
A hand was slipped within Mary's arm; she felt a gentle pressure of reassurance.