At last she wrote, but the words seemed so petty.
All apparently that life meant to her was "How did she do it ?" She stared long at this.

Then followed, as if the fruit of her further meditation: "There is a horrid bit of slang I hear from time to time--can it be that I need more pepper ?" After this she took from the bottom drawer of her bureau that long-forgotten gift from the facetious Dave Cowan.

She held the stockings of tan silk before her, testing their fineness, their sheerness.

She was still meditating.

She snapped her dark head, perked it as might a puzzled wren.
"Certainly, more pepper!" she murmured..