Sara's eyes darted out over the emptying aisles; and, even as she pinned on her velveteen poke-bonnet at a too-swagger angle, and fluffed out a few carefully provided curls across her brow, she kept watch and with obvious subterfuge slid into her little unlined silk coat with a deliberation not her own.
"Coming, Sara?"
"Wait, can't you? My—my hat ain't on right."
"Come on; you're dolled up enough."
"My—my gloves—I—I forgot 'em. You—you can go on, Hat." And she burrowed back beneath the counter.
Miss Krakow let out a snort, as fiery with scorn as though flames were curling on her lips. "Hanging round to see whether he's coming, ain't you? To think they shot Lincoln and let him live! Before I'd run after any man living, much less the excuse of a man like him! A shiny-haired, square-faced little rat like him!"
"I ain't, neither, waiting. I guess I have a right to find my gloves. I—I guess I gotta right. He's as good as you are, and better. I—I guess I gotta right." But the raspberry red of confusion dyed her face.
"No, you ain't waiting! No, no; you ain't waiting," mimicked Miss
Krakow, and her voice was like autumn leaves that crackle underfoot.
"Well, then, if you ain't waiting here he comes now. I dare you to come
on home with me now, like you ought to."
"I—You go on! I gotta tell him something. I guess I'm my own boss. I have to tell him something."
Miss Krakow folded her well-worn hand-bag under one arm and fastened her black cotton gloves.