“‘But,’ he said—‘if I could only look up and look across the room, Rosaleen——’”
“Who was Rosaleen?”
“Me,” briefly. “‘As I sit mourning o’ nights solitary at my window—if I could only look up and see yourself in the doorway, grave as Mary among the lilies—in your simple white shift, Rosaleen....’”
“What’s a shift?” Winnie was galvanized anew by curiosity.
“An animal only to be found in Ireland. The skin of the shift is used for coats....”
“But why did he want you to come to his room in a white fur coat?” completely mystified.
“Men do,” Deb explained lightly. “There was Monna Vanna, you know....”
“And you went? Well, you are! What did he do?” her appetite was growing by what Deb gave it to feed upon.
Scornful of her expectation, and without removing her eyes from that visionary road specked by the little black figures of men, Deb answered her: “He smiled mournfully, without moving from where he sat solitary at his window, and murmured: ‘This does not make a man feel good, Rosaleen——’