Her woe, apparently, was greater than her wrath.
She said sadly: "I dunno, Bert. I ain't the man I used to be—I mean, the woman."
He waited, his small eyes gentle. What woman can altogether resist sympathy, even from a fat man and a cook? Not even the redoubtable soul of a Sally.
She confessed: "I feel sort of hollow and gone—around the stomach,
Fatty."
"Eat," suggested the cook. "I just took out a pie that would—"
"But it ain't the stomach. It's like bein' hungry and wantin' no food.
Fatty, d'you think I'm sick?"
"You look kind of whitish."
"Fatty, I feel—"
She hesitated, as though too great a confession were at her lips, but she stumbled on: "I feel as if I was afraid of somethin', or someone."
"That," said Bert confidently, "ain't possible. It's the stomach, Sally.
Something ain't agreed with you."