"My dear child, cutting sandwiches in your best nightgown."
"I haven't anything better to do in it, have I?"
"Yes, you have. Go to bed in it."
He held the wrapper for her.
"Put this on. I'll open the door. Whew, it's hot in here. I'll finish all this for you."
The blade of the long carving knife continued, small definite crunches.
"You can have your sardines. I found a box in the pantry. There isn't any key for them, you'll have to use the can opener."
The warm kitchen air was like a stupor. This was the steady heart of the house. Ghostly moonlight might wash up to the sill, fragile fancies pervade other rooms: here strong central life went calmly on. In the range red coals slept deep, covered and nourished for the long night. The tall boiler, its silvery paint flaked and dulled, gave off drowsy heat. Under the table the cat Virginia, who was not to be shocked, lay solidly upright with her paws tucked in, sated with scraps and vibrating a strong stupid purr. The high grimed ceiling was speckled with motionless flies, roosting there after a hard day. Packages of groceries, series of yellow bowls and platters, were ranged on the shelves in comfortable order. This was not a
