Tess of the
countryside, your laughing, chaffing, arms-akimbo dairymaid; no poor
white product of the over-civilised cities. Angelina felt that the satin
and lace were wrong; she tore them off, searched in the heaped-up
cupboard for poor neglected Annie No. 1, found her, tore from her her
red woollen skirt and white blouse, stretched them about Rose's portly
body.
"T'ank God for nice Wose, Amen," she said, but she meant, not God, but
her friend. He, her friend, had never sent her anything before, and now
that Rose had come straight from him, she must have a great deal to
tell her about him. Nothing puzzled her more than the distressing fact
that she wondered sometimes whether her friend was ever really coming
again, whether any of the wonderful things that were happening on every
side of her wouldn't suddenly one fine morning vanish altogether, and
leave her to a dreary world of nurse, bread and milk, and the Romans
sacking Jerusalem. She didn't, of course, put it like that; all that it
meant to her was that stupid people and tiresome things were always
interfering between herself and _real_ fun.
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