The windows were still darkened—perhaps she was not home yet. The comparisons upon which she could draw were few and confusingly new, mixed with reality and the loose artistic conceptions of heroes in fiction. A piece of old blanket was fastened across her shoulders, and she had no other clothing except a petticoat. "Tom! Hey, Tom!" The Chinese cook thrust his head into the dining room. "Iss, Massa. I will never consent till I see him. ” She shook her head deliberately, hopelessly. She was lovely, painted like the porcelain doll he had always wanted her to be.
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