sycophantic tone, can't I find something to cover your knees? Looking about she sighted a lemon-yellow dressing-gown hanging over a Coromandel screen. Gathering it in her arms, she spread it over her idol's limbs.
My knees are all right, Adora whined. It's my feet. . . .
Mrs. Scribner was on the floor at once, removing the offending satin shoes.
My feet . . . and those damn Niggers.
Silently, Mary applauded this sentiment.
It isn't you, Mary dear—in making this reservation Adora disregarded the presence of the other two ladies—it isn't you. It's that ink-fingered trash downstairs. Oh, a few of them are all right, but most of them come here to drink my booze and eat my food and raise hell at my expense. If I was poor they wouldn't come near me, not a damn one of them.
Why, Adora, protested Mrs. Scribner, we'd come to you in a hovel.
Um, Adora responded doubtfully, the while she stretched forward her released feet and wriggled her silk-encased toes. Suppose you ring the bell.
Mrs. St. Paris pressed a button in the wall.
Mary was surprised to find herself actually interested in studying Adora. She was beautiful, of that there could be no question, beautiful and regal. Her skin was almost black; her nose broad, her lips thick. Her ears were set well on her head;
