“I thought…good for my work.”
“Your work is to mend and fix, nothing more. Your kind will never be anything more.”
My gaping mouth snapped closed. Pain stabbed my jaw as my teeth ground together. I longed for a sharp tongue in full possession of English with which to whip her.
“Go to bed, go to sleep this minute,” Mrs. Briggs ordered, stomping out of the room with the same anger in which she had entered, taking the magazine with her.
Greta slipped back into her bed, “Nighty, night, Geeneeva,” she twittered at me.
I stared at her back. There was an English word for her, I had heard the men in the basement use it. It began with a `b,' though that was all I could remember. In my language, under my breath, I called her a puttana.
* * *
Somehow, one of Mrs. Worthington's day dresses, one
