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 over her taupe chiffon to look like Evelyn's dress. She had some marabou edging—dirty white, but perhaps she could dye it. She must ask Evelyn what that perfume was.

The wind had risen. Kate thought it might be driving the rain in on the porch chairs and wetting their cushions. So she put on her flannelette wrapper and went down and out on the porch, and tipped the chairs against the wall, back up. And then, because she was downstairs, she went to see if Effa had shut the ice-box. Almost all the charlotte russe gone, and there had been more than half left. Effa must have stuffed; no wonder she was so fat. That girl hadn't a thought in her head beyond laughing and eating. And the mayonnaise in the best luster bowl! But as she squatted there in her flannelette wrapper, with her hair in a little gray wisp of pigtail, looking fixedly into the refrigerator, she didn't give a hang for anything in it, really, or anything out of it. For her tulips, that were blooming so beautifully along the path—the wet twilight-colored cups of Bleu Aimable, scarlet Mr. Farncombe Sanders, and old-rose Miss Governy bowing under the rain—or her new brown foulard with the cream-colored dots, or the paper on "Childhood in Art" she was writing for the Wednesday Club, or even the new wall paper in the parlor. She didn't care for anything except to be young again, and have her husband back,