And after a long time of sober
staring at her image in the glass Hazel shook herself impatiently.
"I'm a silly, selfish, incompetent little beast," she whispered. "Bill
ought to thump me, instead of being kind. I can't do anything, and I
don't know much, and I'm a scarecrow for looks right now. And I
started out to be a real partner."
She wiped an errant tear away, and made her way to a store--a new place
sprung up, like the bank and the hotel, with the growing importance of
the town. The stock of ready-made clothing drove her to despair. It
seemed that what women resided in Hazleton must invariably dress in
Mother Hubbard gowns of cheap cotton print with other garments to
match. But eventually they found for her undergarments of a sort, a
waist and skirt, and a comfortable pair of shoes. Hats, as a milliner
would understand the term, there were none. And in default of such she
stuck to the gray felt sombrero she had worn into the Klappan and out
again--which, in truth, became her very well, when tilted at the proper
angle above her heavy black hair. Then she went back to the hotel, and
sought a bathroom.
Returning from this she found Bill, a Bill all shaved and shorn,
unloading himself of sundry packages of new attire.
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