The hand she held out to his seemed small to her, pretty....
There was a knock on Fanny’s door.
“It’s me, Mrs. Luve.”
“O Mrs. Deemis. Come in....”
She was almost dressed. The old lady gave a glance that was like a draught of drink at the whole room ... her room, changed so often into new mystery of him or her who hired it. She lived familiarly in mystery. It warmed her. She had no man, her children were gone: she had a family of mystery. She did not know but on these she subsisted.
“There was a phone call for you ... early ... your office. A Mr. Johns—he didn’t give no other name—he said as how if you wasn’t feeling well this morning you should knock off. It’d be alright. Are you sick, dearie?”
“No.” Restless before her mirror.—What should I do here, workless? “Yesterday afternoon a little.... The New York heat, I reckon.”
“I guess so. Well,” the old lady opened the door, “Take the chance when it’s offered. Eh?” She was a silent woman for she was full of her mysteries. She left. Fanny went on dressing.