with the cook-stove, spent much of her spare time sewing. She was making a trousseau that would be the envy of many a girl who had all the money in the world to spend on one: delicate chiffon and linen undergarments, embroidered and hemstitched, gay with lace, ribbons, bows, and insertion, together with a rainbow array of dresses. Olive's father had sent her a cheque for one hundred and fifty dollars with which to purchase materials for this wardrobe, a sum that would go a long way when one knew where to buy remnants or when one attended the sales advertised by the big department stores.
She sewed most of the time Howard visited her in the evenings, talking to him with her mouth full of pins or while she actively plied the needle. Sometimes she would toss him an end of flimsy material to be held taut while she divided it neatly with her long pair of shears. This action would naturally conclude with an embrace, a passionate kiss. Occasionally, Mary would accidentally stroll into the sitting-room in time to see this. Not that it mattered to them—before her they felt no self-consciousness—but it mattered to Mary who saw more than they intended, more, perhaps, than they were aware of. She saw that Howard was Olive's man and that she was his woman. It was more than a marriage; it was a primitive consecration. She saw that each would fight—kill if need be—to retain the other's love. This realization made her feel her own lack more keenly than ever. How had
