The misery, the monotony, the wail of the mother, her own desperation—were away back in the experience of another self. Life had turned on its axis and swung her out of darkness into light. Girls in lacy waists and with swagger hips laughed into her eyes; men looked at her with frank admiration. George Sippy leaned toward her and looked intimately into her face.
"Say," he said, "Polly must have known I like blondes."
"Oh, and I'm always wishin' to be a brunette!"
"You're my style, all right."
"I'll bet you say that to every girl."
"Nix I do. You can ask Polly if I ain't hard to suit. I know just what style of girl I like."
"There's a lot in knowin' just what you like," she said, archly.
"That's some yellow hair you got," he observed, irrelevantly. "My sister used to have hair like that."
She felt of her coiffure.
"Do you like 'em? You ought to see 'em just after they been washed."