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SAT in the town-hall and basted red tape round the edge of gray felt slippers.

They are to be worn by a wounded soldier somewhere in France.

I took the half-finished slippers home with me, when I went.

Also a roll of pink-and-white Canton flannel, cut up into pieces ready for me to put together.

I never sewed for any man before.

I live alone in a white house with green blinds on a New England hill-top with a maid-servant and a majestic female cat for company.

Sarah, the servant, might have told me how the pieces went together—she has a grown-up son—but I wouldn't ask her. No.

I closed the door against her. I went into my room and closed the door.

I laid all the pieces out upon my bed, even to the pocket, even to the little red cross that was to be sewed on last.

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