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She forgot Anna’s sacrifices, forgot her own callousness, forgot the burden which she had fastened upon her sister’s shoulders. Lucy dug out an old light gray cotton miniskirt that had shrunk on Shari in the wash. She had been built for canvas and oil-lamps, and this new thingumajig that kept her nose snoring at eight knots when normally she was able to boil along at ten, and these unblinking things they called lamps (that neither smoked nor smelled), irked and threatened to ruin her temper. Her hair was the one part of her that did not exude the air of wealth. Somebody tricked you back yonder—baited you for spite. What do you mean by calling me wretch, Madam!" she added marching up to Mrs. A week later the manuscript was polished and typewritten, ready for the test. Opening her large black eyes, she fixed them upon him for a moment with a mixture of terror and loathing, and then averted her gaze. He had been the one to dress her in the finest silks and brocades, and here she was, displayed for the world to see in 248 drugstore makeup and the uniform of an old schoolteacher.
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