When she saw him, her cheeks, which were pale, grew red. "He can see I
was crying," she thought. "Well, I don't care. I hate him. What did
I stop for?"
She remembered that her mother had wanted a spool of white cotton.
"Number eleven," she said.
When she saw her father and Mr. Frye in the corner, she grew sulkier
than ever. "They're just laying to settle me down," she thought. And
turning to hide her face, still stained with tears, she made believe to
wave to some one, out the window.
Mr. Crabbe took another man. "Tsck," said Mr. Frye; "maybe I'd better
go and see what Anna wants. Thomas don't appear to know what he's
about."
"Leave them be," said Mr. Crabbe, "leave them be." And he winked first
at Mr. Barly, and then at Mr. Frye. "Don't go spoiling things," he
said.
Mr. Frye allowed his mouth to droop in a thin smile. "Young people are
slow to-day," he remarked. "They act like they had something on their
minds. Green fruit . . . slow to ripe. In my time we went at it
smarter." And he looked thoughtfully at Anna Barly.
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