But Sylvia had the apron. Out of its folds dropped a thin roll of black silk. Flora stood before Sylvia. Beads of sweat showed on her flat forehead. She twitched like one about to have convulsions. She was very tall, but Sylvia seemed to fairly loom over her. She held the black silk out stiffly, like a bayonet.
“What is this?” she demanded, in her tense voice.
Flora twitched.
“What is it? I want to know.”
“The back breadth,” replied Flora in a small, scared voice, like the squeak of a mouse.
“Whose back breadth?”
“Her back breadth.”
“Her back breadth?”
“Yes.”
“Robbing the dead!” said Sylvia, pitilessly. Her tense voice was terrible.