"Tomorrow morning at seven o'clock," said Jeffries. "You have
lost your husband?"
"Yes."
"I saw you'd had great grief. No insurance, I judge? Well--you
will find another--maybe a rich one. No--you'll not have to
sleep alone long, my dear." And he patted her on the shoulder,
gave her a parting fumble of shoulders and arms.
She was able to muster a grateful smile; for she felt a rare
kindness of heart under the familiar animalism to which
good-looking, well-formed women who go about much unescorted
soon grow accustomed. Also, experience had taught her that, as
things go with girls of the working class, his treatment was
courteous, considerate, chivalrous almost. With men in
absolute control of all kinds of work, with women stimulating
the sex appetite by openly or covertly using their charms as
female to assist them in the cruel struggle for
existence--what was to be expected?
Her way to the elevator took her along aisles lined with
tables, hidden under masses of cloaks, jackets, dresses and
materials for making them. They exuded the odors of the
factory--faint yet pungent odors that brought up before her
visions of huge, badly ventilated rooms, where women aged or
ageing swiftly were toiling hour after hour
monotonously--spending half of each day in buying the right to
eat and sleep unhealthily. The odors--or, rather, the visions
they evoked--made her sick at heart.
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