XXIX
I am happy and comfortable here; it is morning; the sun coming in through
the window, and both Olga and her mother with their hair so smooth and
plastered down, a wonder to see.
After breakfast, which I share with the two of them, getting quantities of
coffee with it, Olga gets herself up in her new skirt and her knitted
kerchief and the jacket. Eh, that wonderful jacket; lasting at the edge
all round, and two rows of buttons of the same, and the neck and sleeves
trimmed with braid. But little Olga could not fill it out. Nothing near
it! The child is all odd corners and angles, like a young calf.
"Couldn't we just take it in a bit at the sides?" I ask. "There's plenty
of time."
But mother and daughter exchange glances, plainly saying, 'tis Sunday, and
no using needle or knife that day. I understand them well enough, for I
would have thought exactly the same myself in my childhood. So I try to
find a way out by a little free-thinking: 'tis another matter when it's a
machine that does the work; no more than when an innocent cart comes
rumbling down the road, as it may any Sunday.
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