"I don't care!" Julia would say then, half aloud. "They're nothing to me
and I'm nothing to them; and good riddance!"
May--but it was like a midsummer afternoon in San Francisco. A hot wind
blew across the ferry place; papers and chaff swept before it. Julia's
skirt was whisked about her knees, her hat was twisted viciously about
on her head. She caught a reflection of herself in a car window,
dishevelled, her hat at an ugly angle, her nose reddened by the wind.
Mrs. Tarbury's house, when she got to it, presented its usual Sunday
afternoon appearance. The window curtains were up at all angles in the
dining-room, hot sunshine streamed through the fly-specked panes, the
draught from the open door drove a wild whirl of newspapers over the
room. Cigarette smoke hung heavy upon the air.
Julia peeped into the dark kitchen; the midday meal was over, and a
Japanese boy was hopelessly and patiently attacking scattered heaps of
dishes and glassware. The girl was hungry, but the cooling wreck of a
leg of mutton and the cold vegetables swimming in water did not appeal
to her, and she went slowly upstairs, helping herself in passing to no
more substantial luncheon than two soda crackers and a large green
pickle.
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