The Second Generation by David Graham Phillips
page 49 of 403 (12%)
page 49 of 403 (12%)
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As usual when the canneries are running, I'm my own upstairs girl. I
reckon your young man here thinks I ought to discharge her and get one that's tidier." "Your young man here" was stiffly touching the brim of his top hat and saying: "Beg parding, ma'am." "Oh, that's all right," replied Mrs. Ranger; "I am what I look to be!" Behind her now appeared Adelaide, her cheeks burning in mortification she was ashamed of feeling and still more ashamed of being unable to conceal. "Go and put on something else, mother," she urged in an undertone; "I'll look after Mrs. Whitney till you come down." "Ain't got time," replied her mother, conscious of what was in her daughter's mind and a little contemptuous and a little resentful of it. "I guess Tilly Whitney will understand. If she don't, why, I guess we can bear up under it." Mrs. Whitney had left her carriage and was advancing up the steps. She was a year older than Ellen Ranger; but so skillfully was she got together that, had she confessed to forty or even thirty-eight, one who didn't know would have accepted her statement as too cautious by hardly more than a year or so. The indisputably artificial detail in her elegant appearance was her hair; its tinting, which had to be made stronger year by year as the gray grew more resolute, was reaching the stage of hard, rough-looking red. "Another year or two," thought Adelaide, "and it'll make her face older than she really is. Even now she's getting a tough look." |
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