Edgeworth Bess wore a scarlet tabby negligée,—a sort of undress, or sack, then much in vogue,—which suited her to admiration, and upon her head had what was called a fly-cap, with richly-laced lappets. “Oh good. It was as if she had grown right past her father into something older and of infinitely wider outlook, as if he had always been unsuspectedly a flattened figure, and now she had discovered him from the other side. Her head was downcast as she studied the museum-like exhibits of various dusts on the resilient tile flooring. You don’t know the thoughts we have; the things we can do and say. She was writhing to get her hands loose and found herself gasping with passionate violence, “It’s damnable!—damnable!” to the manifest disgust of the fatherly policeman on her right. There was a wall; she was always encountering it; the one time she was able to break through this wall was when the part in his hair was crooked. Red velvet curtains rustled under dim lights as the door shut with a heavy snap. I must finish it at home. They weren’t very chummy with one another but Sheila 113 didn’t expect much from a foster daughter as long as she worked hard, very hard, to earn her keep.
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