"I.W., don't let him have our little Effie!"
"Nonsense!" he said, in some distaste for her voice choked with tears.
"Cut out this woman foolishness now and come to bed. Is this something
new you're springing on me? I got no patience with women who indulge
themselves with nervous breakdowns. I never thought, Hattie, you had
nothing like that in you."
Her voice was rising now in hysteria, slipping up frequently beyond her
control.
"If you do, I can't stand it! I can't stand it, I.W.!"
He peered at her in the starlight that came down through the screened-in
top of the sleeping-porch.
"Why?" he said, suddenly awake, and shortly.
"I worked for him nine years, I.W. I--I know him."
"How?"
"I know him, I.W. She's too good for him."
"How do you know him?"
"I--the girls, I.W. One little girl now, Cissie--I--I hear it all from
my friend Delehanty--sometimes she--she writes to me. I--the models
and--the girls and--and the lady buyers--they--they used to gossip in
the factory and--I--I used to hear about it. I.W., don't! Let go! You
hurt!" His teeth and his hands were very tight, and he hung now over the
side of the bed and toward her.
"He--I.
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