At six o’clock Hattie Krakow untied her black alpaca apron, pinned a hat as nondescript as a bird’s nest at an unrakish angle and slid into a warm gray jacket.
“Ready, Sara?”
“Yes, Hat.” But her voice came vaguely, as through fog.
“I’m going to fix us some stew to-night with them onions Lettie brought up to the room when she moved—mutton stew, with a broth for you, Sara.”
“Yes, Hat.”
Sara’s eyes darted out over the emptying aisles; and, even as she pinned on her velveteen poke bonnet at a too-swagger angle, and fluffed out a few carefully provided curls across her brow, she kept watch and, with obvious subterfuge, slid into her little unlined silk coat with a deliberation not her own. “Coming, Sara?”
“Wait, can’t you? My—my hat ain’t on right.”
“Come on; you’re dolled up enough.”
“My—my gloves—I—I forgot ’em. You—you can go on, Hat.” And she must burrow back beneath the counter.
Miss Krakow let out a snort, as fiery with scorn as though flames were curling on her lips.