The two women scarcely stopped to eat in the last ten days
of the holiday rush. Often Annie, the girl who had taken
Mattie's place in the household, would bring down their
supper, hot and hot, and they would eat it quickly up in the
little gallery where they kept the sleds, and doll buggies,
and drums. At night (the store was open until ten or eleven
at Christmas time) they would trudge home through the snow,
so numb with weariness that they hardly minded the cold.
The icy wind cut their foreheads like a knife, and made the
temples ache. The snow, hard and resilient, squeaked
beneath their heels. They would open the front door and
stagger in, blinking. The house seemed so weirdly quiet and
peaceful after the rush and clamor of the store.
"Don't you want a sandwich, Mother, with a glass of beer?"
"I'm too tired to eat it, Fanny. I just want to get to
bed."
Fanny grew to hate the stock phrases that met her with each
customer. "I want something for a little boy about ten.
He's really got everything." Or, "I'm looking for a present
for a lady friend.
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