Milly was stouter than when she had worked in the box-shop. She had also coarsened. Her washed-out hair was gathered in a hasty knot at the back of her neck. “Scolding locks” stuck out at wild angles. The back of that neck was flat and homely. She wore a gingham house dress that was torn in the front and she could have materially improved her appearance by discarding her apron.
“Well,” she demanded, without looking around, “if the shop ain’t going to start up, what you aimin’ to do?”
“I haven’t thought that far yet. Get a job, probably. Go to work!”
“S’pose old Gridley would set you up in somethin’?”
“I wouldn’t ask him, even if he would.”
“But what about me, I say? What about Mary?”
“You won’t starve. I’ll see to that.”
“You’ll see to that! Huh! You couldn’t even see yourself out of jail! Gridley had to come clean from California and see it for you!”
“Milly, don’t let’s have any argument to-night. Please! I’m nearly all in.”
“So am I all in! You never give a thought about me!”