"What do you want?" she breathed, allowing the heavy piece of iron to sink slowly to her side.
"Sit down," said the man. "Let's talk things over."
Great Taylor sank into a broken armchair, her huge calloused hands rested in her lap, wrists crossed, palms turned upward, fingers stiffly curled. "I know who you are," she mumbled, leaning forward and peering through the half-light. "What do you want?"
"You hung out a sign…."
"You ain't the man I expected."
"No?" He rocked up on his toes and made a gesture that indicated the piles of junk. "You're done."
"I'm done," assented Great Taylor. "I ain't going to lay a hand on the cart again. Ten years…."
"Uhm. You have a right to the things that other women have. But…." He glanced around the dingy warehouse. "Is this all you have for your ten years?"
Great Taylor made no reply.
"It isn't much," said the man.