“C. Q.”; or, In the Wireless House
the evening meal cast sidelong glances at her as she lay with her head thrown back in the light cast by the electric bracket inside her window.
“That’s her,” whispered one. “I don’t see anything in her at all.”
“Nor I!” echoed the other raspingly. “She looks like an old woman!”
They passed and a spat of rain struck Lily in the face. Wearily she arose from her steamer chair and entered her drawing-room. There were dark circles under her eyes.
“Fantine!” she cried, with clenched hands, “get my best evening dress out of the wardrobe.—Yes, the Paquin one, with the foulard skirt and the chiffon trimming.”
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