natural arrogance of her years; she felt that she had nothing to learn.
She had an affectionate contempt for her mother, and gave advice more
often than she accepted it from Emeline. Julia naturally loved order and
cleanliness, but she never came in contact with them. Emeline sometimes
did not air or make her bed for weeks at a time. She washed only such
dishes as were absolutely necessary for the next meal. She never sent
out a bundle to the laundry, but washed handkerchiefs and some underwear
herself, at erratic intervals, drying them on windows, or the backs of
various chairs. Emeline always had a pair or more of silk stockings
soaking in a little bowl of cold suds in the bedroom, and occasionally
carried a waist or a lace petticoat to the little French laundress on
Powell Street, and drove a sharp bargain with her. Julia accepted the
situation very cheerfully; she and her mother both enjoyed their lazy,
aimless existence, and to Julia, at least, the future was full of hope.
She could do any one of a dozen things that would lead to fame and
fortune.

The particular day that opened for her with two hours of quiet reading
progressed like any other day. The mother and daughter arose, got their
breakfast in the kitchen, and sat long over it, sharing the papers, the
hot coffee, the cream, and dividing evenly the little French loaf.
Julia's nightgown was as limp as her mother's, her kimono as dirty, and
her feet were thrust in fur slippers, originally white, now gray. But
her fresh young colour, and the rich loops and waves of her golden hair,
her firm young breasts under her thin wraps, and the brave blue of her
eyes made her a very different picture from her mother, who sat
opposite, a vision of disorder, feasting her eyes upon the girl.

There was a murder story, of which mother and daughter read every word,
and a society wedding to discuss.