Shameless she was as she leant upon the counter in some distant village,
cajoling, persuading, spinning some tale of want and necessity more
picturesque, though no less actual, than her own. Secret, too, lest one
of her companions, over-eager, should spoil her hunting ground.
Sitting with her leather coat over her shoulders, happy in her solitude,
she would drink the cup of Benger's Food which she had made from the
milk, and when it was finished, slide lower among the rugs, put out the
lights, and listen to the rustle of the rats in the wall.
"Mary Bell is getting married," said a clear voice in the hut.
"To the Wykely boy?" answered a second voice, and in a sudden need of
sound the two voices talked on, while the six listeners upon their
stretchers saw in the dark the life and happiness of Mary Bell blossom
before them, unknown and bright.
The alarm clock went off with a scream at five.
"Why, I've hardly been asleep!" sighed Fanny, bewildered, and, getting
up, she lit the lamp and made her coffee. Again there was not time to
make the bed. Though fresh to the work she believed that she had been
there for ever, yet the women with whom she shared her life had driven
the roads of the Meuse district for months before she came to them, and
their eyes were dim with peering into the dark nights, and they were
tired past any sense of adventure, past any wish or power to better
their condition.
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