(What power Marya Proderenska had, a blond social worker had, too, and other people; she had never been able to clear her mind of her own superstitions enough to train the power or work very effectively with it. The power was sufficient for her.)
Marya Proderenska sighed. The power demanded its own responsibilities. She could not marry outside the clan into which she had been born. She could not be seen on certain days of every month. During those days many foods were forbidden her.
Thus the power worked, and thus she lived.
The woman would bring money for her, Marya knew. So she sat in the back of the shop and waited, and sighed, until the front door sighed open and Marie Wladek called: "Old woman, old woman!"
"Do you call me?" Marya said in her proud baritone.
"I call you, I call the gypsy woman."
Marya stood up and smoothed her old dress over the big-boned frame all of her husbands had admired. "Then come to me," she called.
Marie Wladek crept into the room, her eyes saucers of awe. To speak of witches was all very well, and a fresh-faced girl could give one fright; but here was the authority and power of witchcraft, in this woman with the fuzz of hair on her lip and the great trumpeting voice.
"I come for help," Mrs. Wladek said.
"I know why you have come," Marya Proderenska said. "You have a great trouble."