It made of her mouth a comedy blubber, her own rather firm lips
sliding about somewhere in the lightish swamp. That was all of Hattie
that looked out. Except her eyes. They were good gray eyes with popping
whites now, because of a trick of blackening the lids. But the irises
were in their pools, inviolate.
"Well, Hattie, I reckon I'd have known you even under black."
"I thought you were in Rio."
"Got to hankering after the States, Hattie."
"I read of a Morris Sebree died in Brazil. Sometimes I used to think
maybe it might have been a misprint--and--that--you--were--the--one."
"No, no. 'Live and kickin'. Been up around here a good while."
"Where?"
"Home. N'Orleans. M' mother died, Hattie, God rest her bones. Know it?"
"No."
"Cancer."
It was a peculiar silence. A terrible word like that was almost slowly
soluble in it. Gurgling down.
"O-oh!"
"Sort of gives a fellow the shivers, Hattie, seeing you kinda hidin'
behind yourself like this. But I saw you come in the theater to-night.
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