There is this peculiarity about tan wall-paper. If you stare at it
long enough you begin to see things. Emma McChesney, who pulled down
something over thirty-two hundred a year selling Featherloom
Petticoats, saw this:

A kitchen, very bright and clean, with a cluttered kind of cleanliness
that bespeaks many housewifely tasks under way. There were mixing
bowls, and saucepans, and a kettle or so, and from the oven there came
the sounds of sputtering and hissing. About the room there hung the
divinely delectable scent of freshly baked cookies. Emma McChesney saw
herself in an all-enveloping checked gingham apron, her sleeves rolled
up, her hair somewhat wild, and one lock powdered with white where she
had pushed it back with a floury hand. Her cheeks were surprisingly
pink, and her eyes were very bright, and she was scraping a baking
board and rolling-pin, and trimming the edges of pie tins, and turning
with a whirl to open the oven door, stooping to dip up spoonfuls of
gravy only to pour the rich brown liquid over the meat again. There
were things on top of the stove that required sticking into with a
fork, and other things that demanded tasting and stirring with a
spoon. A neighbor came in to borrow a cup of molasses, and Emma urged
upon her one of her freshly baked cookies. And there was a ring at the
front-door bell, and she had to rush away to do battle with a
persistent book agent....

The buzzing fly alighted on Emma McChesney's left eyebrow. She swatted
it with a hand that was not quite quick enough, spoiled the picture,
and slowly rose from her perch at the bedside.

"Oh, damn!" she remarked, wearily, and went over to the dresser. Then