THE TRIMMED LAMP
and paling, but its velvety, pink-and-white, becomingly freckled surface was unscratched, unbruised, unmarred by the recreant fist of Mr. Fink.
“Tell me, Maggie,” pleaded Mame, “or I’ll go in there and find out. What was it? Did he hurt you—what did he do?”
Mrs. Fink’s face went down again despairingly on the bosom of her friend.
“For Gawd’s sake don’t open that door, Mame,” she sobbed. “And don’t ever tell nobody—keep it under your hat. He—he never touched me, and—he’s—oh, Gawd—he’s washin’ the clothes—he’s washin’ the clothes!”
[168]
