Payson does mine.
As you say she does it very nicely, and is quick about it. Her
prices are high. I pay her half a dollar, and she gets done, as
you see, a good deal before noon. But the work is satisfactory,
and I think it pays better. I don't know whether she has a free
day--but--shall I send her to you when she comes next week?"
Mrs. Kendrick blushed burning red, and took up her bundles with a
jerk.
"No, thank you," she said shortly. "I couldn't any more afford
that than I could fly. I didn't know Sally Payson had got to
charging like that--fifty cents for less than half a day's work!
I declare, prices are enough to ruin a body these days."
She went on to her own home smarting. She had called the washer
woman "Sally Payson," to be sure, in correction of Eliza
Jackson's "Mrs. Payson," which was a minor victory, yet it was
not enough to wipe away a feeling of stinging exasperation and a
curious sense of defeat. And when she told her husband about it
afterward, he received her recital with a sort of humorous
impatience.
"Good Lord, Fan," he broke in finally, "don't you know that every
woman with a black skin isn't hungry to do your washing? It's not
a question of complexion; it's money that talks.
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