"It isn't worthy of you. Leave
it to the silly dolls and the bad women."
There was a long silence. Joan felt the tears trickling between her
fingers.
"You haven't seen me," came at last in a thin, broken voice.
Joan bent down and kissed her. "Let's try it," she whispered.
A little choking sound was the only answer. But the woman rose and, Joan
following, they stole upstairs into the bedroom and Mrs. Phillips turned
the key.
It took a long time, and Joan, seated on the bed, remembered a night when
she had taken a trapped mouse (if only he had been a quiet mouse!) into
the bathroom and had waited while it drowned. It was finished at last,
and Mrs Phillips stood revealed with her hair down, showing streaks of
dingy brown.
Joan tried to enthuse; but the words came haltingly. She suggested to
Joan a candle that some wind had suddenly blown out. The paint and
powder had been obvious, but at least it had given her the mask of youth.
She looked old and withered. The life seemed to have gone out of her.
"You see, dear, I began when I was young," she explained; "and he has
always seen me the same.
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