Dillon stood hesitating, then he nodded.
“Sure, go ahead an’ talk about it.”
Myra Hogan walked down the main street, conscious of the turning heads. Even the niggers hesitated in their work, frightened to look up, but peeping their heads lowered.
She clicked on, her high wooden heels tapping a challenge. The men watched her, stripping her with their eyes, as she passed them.
The women watched her, too. Cold, envious eyes, hating her. Myra rolled her hips a little. She put on a slight strut, patting her dark curls. Her firm young body, unhampered by any restraining garment, moved rhythmically. Her full, firm breasts jerked under the thin covering of her cheap, flowered dress.
At the end of the street a group of slatternly women stood gossiping, ripping people to pieces in the hot sunlight. They saw her coming and stopped talking, standing there; silent, elderly, bulging women, worn out by childbirth and hard work. Myra stiffened as she approached them. For a moment her step lost its rhythmic swing. The wooden heels trod softer. Her confidence in herself had no solid foundations; she was still very young. In the company of her elders she had to force herself forward.
With an uneasy smile on her full red lips she came on. But the women, as she came nearer, shifted like a brood of vultures, turning their drooping shoulders against her, their eyes sightless, not seeing her. Again the wooden heels began to click Her face flushed, her head held high, she went past.
A buzz of talk broke out behind her. One of the women said loudly: “I’d give her something—the dirty little whore.”
Myra kept on. “The sluts!” she thought, furious with them. “I’ve got everything, and they hate me.”
The bank stood at the end of the main street. Clem Gibson was standing in the doorway. He saw Myra coming, and he nervously fingered his tie.