AMY DUNCAN said to herself, aloud, in a tone of withering sarcasm, " Heaven protect the poor working girl! I'll go get me a job at the five and ten, something decent and domestic like the kitchenware counter. Wah!" She squeezed the rinse water from the stockings she had been washing, hung them in a neat row along the shower-curtain rail, dried her hands, and left the bathroom to enter the modest little living-room of the apartment on Grove Street which she shared with a friend. Facing south, it was often a cheerful little room with the sun slanting in through two windows, but now the dim November gloom of an overcast day was no more cheerful than she was. As she picked up her watch from the table at one end of the sofa and fastened it to her wrist, she frowned at it. It said twelve o'clock, and since her lunch engagement at the Churchill with the man who either was or wasn't trying to blackmail Mrs. V. A. Grimsby was for one o'clock, and it would take only twenty minutes to get there, and she intended to be fifteen minutes late, there was nearly an hour ahead of her and nothing to do with it that she felt like doing.
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