"
Nance was kneeling on the floor, tying a cord about her box when she
heard steps on the stairs.
"Uncle Jed?" she asked in alarm.
"No. Just Snawdor. He won't ast no questions. He ain't got gumption
enough to be curious."
"I hate to go sneaking off like this without telling everybody good-by,"
said Nance petulantly, "Uncle Jed, and the children, and the Levinskis,
and Mr. Demry, and--and--Dan."
"You don't want to take no risks," said Mrs. Snawdor, importantly.
"There's a fool society for everything under the sun, an' somebody'll be
tryin' to git out a injunction. I don't mind swearin' to whatever age you
got to be, but Mr. Burks is so sensitive about them things."
"All right," said Nance, flinging on her hat and coat, "tell 'em how it
was when I'm gone. I'll be sending you money before long."
"That's right," whispered Mrs. Snawdor, hanging over the banister as
Nance felt her way down the stairs. "You be good to yerself an' see if
you can't git me a theayter ticket for to-morrow night. Git two, an' I'll
take Mis' Gorman."
Never had Nance tripped so lightly down those dark, narrow stairs--the
stairs her feet had helped to wear away in her endless pilgrimages with
buckets of coal and water and beer, with finished and unfinished
garments, and omnipresent Snawdor babies. She was leaving it all
forever, along with the smell of pickled herrings and cabbage and
soapsuds. But she was not going to forget the family! Already she was
planning munificent gifts from that fabulous sum that was henceforth to
be her weekly portion.
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