Princess, if you're mystified, was
royal in name only--a biscuit-tinted lady, with a very black
and no-account husband whose habits made it necessary for
Princess to let herself into Fanny's four-room flat at seven
every morning, and let herself out at eight every evening.
She had an incredibly soft and musical voice, had Princess,
and a cooking hand. She kept Fanny mended, fed and
comfortable, and her only cross was that Fanny's taste in
blouses (ultimately her property) ran to the severe and
tailored.
"Mawnin', Miss Fanny. There's a gep'mun waitin' to see
yo'."
Fanny choked on a yawn. "A what!"
"Gep'mun. Says yo-all goin' picnickin'. He's in the
settin' room, a-lookin' at yo' pictchah papahs. Will Ah fry
yo' up a li'l chicken to pack along? San'wiches ain't no
eatin' fo' Sunday."
Fanny flung back her covers, swung around to the side of the
bed, and stood up, all, seemingly, in one sweeping movement.
"Do you mean to tell me he's in there, now?"
From the sitting room. "I think I ought to tell you I can
hear everything you're saying.
Pages:
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305