"Oh, yes. I began at thirteen in a bakery. I had a place near the oven and the heat overcame me."
Her shoulders are bowed, her chest is hollow.
"Looking for a boarding place near the factory, I hear," she continues.
"Yes. You live at home, I suppose."
"Yes. There's four of us: mamma, papa, my sister and myself. Papa's blind."
"Can't he work?"
"Oh, yes, he creeps to his job every morning, and he's got so much experience he kind o' does things by instinct."
"Does your mother work?"
"Oh, my, no. My sister's an invalid. She hasn't been out o' the door for three years. She's got enlargement of the heart and consumption, too, I guess; she 'takes' hemorrhages. Sometimes she has twelve in one night. Every time she coughs the blood comes foaming out of her mouth. She can't lie down. I guess she'd die if she lay down, and she gets so tired sittin' up all night. She used to be a tailoress, but I guess her job didn't agree with her."
"How many checks have we got," I ask toward the close of the day.