“How do you feel?” I asked Bertha.
“I’m weak as a kitten.”
“You have to expect that after your illness.”
“I’m starved to death.”
“Going to get out?”
“I think I will. I want some chocolate bars.”
She got out, and walked into the depot, saw the cigar counter and newsstand, marched across, and bought herself two chocolate bars.
The man who had been seated next to me strolled over to her and said something. Bertha stared at him with those diamond-hard eyes of hers. He looked her over approvingly, started to move away, then turned back, and said something which made Bertha smile.
I bought a newspaper and read through the headlines. After a few minutes, the man who had been talking with Bertha moved over to stand at my shoulder and said in a low voice, “Want to make a bet?”
“No.”