"
CHAPTER XVI
"Most like it's the Spring," said Martha. It was Memorial Day. She and
Miss Lang were at home, sitting together in Claire's pretty room,
through the closed blinds of which the hot May sun sent tempered shafts
of light.
Claire regarded Mrs. Slawson steadily for a moment, seeming to make some
sort of mental calculation meanwhile.
"Well, if it _is_ the Spring," she observed at length with a whimsical
little frown knitting her brows, "it's mighty forehanded, for it began
to get in its fine work as far back as January. Ever since the time Sam
went to the Sanatorium you've been losing flesh and color, Martha,
and--I don't know what to do about it!"
"Do about it!" repeated Mrs. Slawson. "Why, there ain't nothin' _to_ do
about it, but let the good work go on. I'm in luck, if it's true what
you say. Believe _me_, there's lots o' ladies in this town, is starvin'
their stummicks an' everythin' else about 'em, an' payin' the doctors
high besides, just to get delicate-complected, an' airy-fairy figgers,
same's I'm doin' without turnin' a hand.
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