"Do you like your job?" I ask.

"Yes, I do," she answers, pleased to tell her little history. "I began
in a clothing shop. I only made $2.50 a week, but I didn't have to
stand. I felt awful when papa made me quit. When I came in here, bein'
on my feet tired me so I cried every night for two months. Now I've got
used to it. I don't feel no more tired when I get home than I did when I
started out." There are two sharp blue lines that drag themselves down
from her eyes to her white cheeks.

"Why, you know, at Christmas they give us two weeks," she goes on in the
sociable tone of a woman whose hands are occupied. "I just didn't know
what to do with myself."

"Does your mother work?"

"Oh, my, no. I don't have to work, only if I didn't I couldn't have the
clothes I do. I save some of my money and spend the rest on myself. I
make $6 to $7 a week."

The girl next us volunteers a share in the conversation.

"I bet you can't guess how old I am."

I look at her. Her face and throat are wrinkled, her hands broad, and
scrawny; she is tall and has short skirts. What shall be my clue? If I
judge by pleasure, "unborn" would be my answer; if by effort, then "a
thousand years."