On her way back to the hotel she frankly loitered. Just to look at her
made you certain that she was not of our town. Now, that doesn't imply
that the women of our town do not dress well, because they do. But
there was something about her--a flirt of chiffon at the throat, or
her hat quill stuck in a certain way, or the stitching on her gloves,
or the vamp of her shoe--that was of a style which had not reached us
yet.

As Emma McChesney loitered, looking in at the shop windows and
watching the women hurrying by, intent on the purchase of their Sunday
dinners, that vaguely restless feeling seized her again. There were
rows of plump fowls in the butcher-shop windows, and juicy roasts. The
cunning hand of the butcher had enhanced the redness of the meat by
trimmings of curly parsley. Salad things and new vegetables glowed
behind the grocers' plate-glass. There were the tender green of
lettuces, the coral of tomatoes, the brown-green of stout asparagus
stalks, bins of spring peas and beans, and carrots, and bunches of
greens for soup. There came over the businesslike soul of Emma
McChesney a wild longing to go in and select a ten-pound roast, taking
care that there should be just the right proportion of creamy fat and
red meat. She wanted to go in and poke her fingers in the ribs of a
broiler. She wanted to order wildly of sweet potatoes and vegetables,
and soup bones, and apples for pies. She ached to turn back her
sleeves and don a blue-and-white checked apron and roll out noodles.

She still was fighting that wild impulse as she walked back to the
hotel, went up to her stuffy room, and, without removing hat or coat,
seated herself on the edge of the bed and stared long and hard at the
tan wall-paper.