"Rhona's my name," she breathed.
"Well, that's cute! Call you Ronie?" She stretched out her arms. "Oh, slats! I'd give my teeth for a cigarette and a Manhattan cocktail. Wouldn't I, though!"
Rhona shuddered.
The woman turned toward her.
"My name's Millie. Now we're pals, eh?" Then she rattled on: "First time in the workhouse? Comes hard at first, doesn't it? Cut off from friends and fun—and ain't the work beastly? Say, Ronie, what's your job in little old New York?"
Rhona swallowed a dull sob.
"I haven't any—we're on strike."
Millie jumped up.
"What, you one of them shirtwaist strikers?"
"Yes."