paper-bound book face down
on the tabouret beside her; yawned; made a foray into an uncovered box
of chocolate bonbons; sank her small teeth into a creamy oozing heart
and dropped a particle of the sweet into the sniffling, upturned snout
of a white wool dog cuddled in the curve of her arm; yawned again.

"No more tandy! Make ittsie Snookie Ookie sick! Make muvver's ittsie
bittsie bow-wow sick! No! No!"

Each admonition she accompanied with a slight pat designed to intimidate
further display of appetite. The small bunch in her arms raised his head
and regarded her with pink, sick little eyes, his tongue darting this
way and that in an aftermath of relish; then fell to licking her bare
forearm with swift, dry strokes.

"Muvver's ittsie bittsie Snookie! Him love him poor muvver! Him poor,
poor muvver!"

A cold tear oozed through one of Miss Munroe's closed eyes, zigzagged
down her face, and she laid her cheek pat against the white wool.

"Muvver just wishes she was dead, Snookie. God! don't she just!"

An hour she lay so. The morning sunshine receded, leaving a certain
grayness in the cluttered room. From the rear of the flat came the
clatter of dishes and the harsh sing of water plunging from a faucet.
The book slid from its incline on the pillow to the floor and lay with
its leaves crumpled under. The dog fell to snoring. Another while ticked
past--loudly. And as if the ticking were against her brain like drops of
water, she rose to a half-sitting posture, reached for the small onyx
clock on the mantelpiece and smothered it beneath one of the red sateen
sofa-pillows. When she relaxed again two fresh tears waggled heavily
down her cream-colored cheeks. Then for a while she slept, with her
mouth ever so slightly open and revealing the white line of her teeth.
The tears slid off her cheeks to the mussed frills of her negligee and
dried there.

The little dog emerged from his sleep gaping and stretching backward his
hind legs. Mae Munroe yawned, extending her arms at full length before
her; regarded her fair ringed fingers and the four dimples across the
back of each hand; reached for a cigarette and with the wry face of
nausea tossed it back into its box; swung to a sitting posture on the
side of the sofa, the dog springing from the curve of her arm to the
floor, shaking himself.

Her blowsy hair, burned at the ends but the color of corn-silk, came
unloosed of its morning plait and she braided it over one shoulder