Pulling out the hairpins that held the
elaborate puffs in place, she let her shining mass of hair about her
shoulders and studied her face intently. Her mouth, she decided, was too
big, her eyes too far apart, her neck too thin. Then she made a face at
herself and laughed:
"Who cares?" she said.
By and by it got too dark to sew; the match box refused to be found, and
she decided it was time to stop anyhow. She opened the window and, gaily
humming the music of the Little Bear dance, leaned across the sill, while
the cool evening air fanned her hot cheeks.
Far away in the west, over the housetops, she could see the stately spire
of the cathedral, a brown silhouette against a pale, lemon sky. Down
below, through the dull, yellow dusk, faint lights were already defining
the crisscross of streets. The whispers of the waking city came up to
her, eager, expectant, like the subdued murmur of a vast audience just
before the curtain ascends. Then suddenly, written on the twilight in
letters of fire, came the familiar words, "You get what you pay for."
Nance's fingers ceased to drum on the window-sill. It was the big sign
facing Post-Office Square, old Post-Office Square, with its litter of
papers, its battered weather kiosk, and the old green bench where she and
Dan had sat so many evenings on their way home from the factory. Dan! A
wave of remorse swept over her. She had forgotten him as completely as if
he had never existed. And now that she remembered what was she to do? Go
to him and make a clean breast of it? And run the risk of having him
invoke the aid of Mrs.
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