Mrs. Brock had diminished her smile—perfunctory, perhaps, from its long use in connection with local industry—and said with slight sharpness, “Nora. Did you speak?”
“Possibly,” Nora answered.
“What did you say, Nora?”
“I wasn’t aware,” Nora responded thoughtfully, “of saying it aloud. Pardon me.”
Mrs. Brock meditated, and pursued the matter no further. The last time she had persisted in probing Nora’s murmurings, Nora had reluctantly vouchsafed their subject: certain frank facts of natural history gleaned from idle reading in a book on pig breeding. Mrs. Brock resumed the mien of good will related to home industries—and myriad other subjects.
She would like, Nora thought judiciously, to teach us something; it’s just that the poor woman doesn’t know anything worth teaching.
It has been noted that Nora had evaded the study of geography on the previous evening.
She had, very honorably, opened the book. But she had pored over other matters than home industries and resources: matters contained in a hidden, paper-back volume entitled Sin in Seven Streets. This item, borrowed from a classmate in return for the use of one of Nora’s mother’s necklaces at a party, purported to be “a frank and factual account of the shocking international traffic in womanhood, written by a team of world-renowned journalists.”
So it happened the next day (which was sunny and very hot) that Nora found herself ill prepared for geography recitation. Bells, which regiment the lives of children, rang loudly.
Arithmetics had been put away and thirty-nine sixth graders had taken out geographies, setting them on their desks, closed. Blackboards were erased.