“Who’ll mind the baby nar?” was one of the night’s inspirations, and very frequent. So the talk went on. A week later the manuscript was polished and typewritten, ready for the test. She held it away from her with an instinctive repulsion, born of her unconquerable antipathy to the touch of strangers. As she hoisted her skirts near her waist, she thought ruefully of the last time she had worn such an elaborate gown, sometime near 1910 when petticoats were still considered hip everyday garb. I shall count it a privilege. Still it was possible, and the difficulty was only a fresh incitement. It was a simple wish.
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