Miss Willerton, her coat buttoned unevenly, tramped up Broad Street and into the Super Market. "What was it now?" she muttered. "Two dozen eggs and a pound of tomatoes, yes." She passed the lines of canned vegetables and the crackers and headed for the box where the eggs were kept. But there were no eggs. "Where are the eggs?" she asked a boy weighing snapbeans.
"We ain't got nothin' but pullet eggs," he said fishing up another handful of beans.
"Well where are they and what is the difference?" Miss Willerton demanded.
He threw several beans back into the bin, slouched over to the egg box and handed her a carton. "There ain't no difference really," he said pushing his gum over his front teeth, "a teen-age chicken or somethin', I don't know. You want 'em?"
"Yes, and two pounds of tomatoes. Ripe tomatoes," Miss Willerton added. She did not like to do the shopping. There was no reason those clerks should be so condescending. That boy wouldn't have dwaddled with Lucia. She paid for the eggs and tomatoes and left hurriedly. The place depressed her somehow.
Silly that a grocery should depress one--nothing in it but trifling domestic doings--women buying beans--riding children in those grocery co-carts--higgling about
