“Oh, I don't want to buy anything,” Saxon said. “I make nice things like you have here, and I wanted to know what you pay for them—for that breakfast cap in the window, for instance.”
The woman darted a keen glance to Saxon's left hand, noted the innumerable tiny punctures in the ends of the first and second fingers, then appraised her clothing and her face.
“Can you do work like that?”
Saxon nodded.
“I paid twenty dollars to the woman that made that.” Saxon repressed an almost spasmodic gasp, and thought coolly for a space. Mercedes had given her twelve. Then Mercedes had pocketed eight, while she, Saxon, had furnished the material and labor.
“Would you please show me other hand-made things -- nightgowns, chemises, and such things, and tell me the prices you pay?”
“Can you do such work?”
“Yes.”
“And will you sell to me?”
“Certainly,” Saxon answered. “That is why I am here.”