But a woman of forty-six--the road isn't the place for
her. She's tired. Tired in the morning; tired at night. She wants her
kimono and her afternoon snooze. You've seen some of those old girls
on the road. They've come down step by step until you spot 'em,
bleached hair, crow's-feet around the eyes, mussy shirt-waist, yellow
and red complexion, demonstrating green and lavender gelatine messes
in the grocery of some department store. I don't say that a brainy
corker of a saleswoman like you would come down like that. But you've
got to consider sickness and a lot of other things. Those six weeks
last summer with the fever at Glen Rock put a crimp in you, didn't it?
You've never been yourself since then. Haven't had a decent chance to
rest up."
"No," said Emma McChesney wearily.
"Furthermore, now that old T. A.'s cashed in, how do you know what
young Buck's going to do? He don't know shucks about the skirt
business. They've got to take in a third party to keep it a close
corporation. It was all between old Buck, Buck junior, and old lady
Buck.
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