"Pearl, how you been standing it up in that God-forsaken hole where you
can't even keep warm is what beats me. Seems to me I went to church
once, oh, just for a lark, and the preacher talked about some plagues of
Egypt, all different kinds, you know. It was real interesting. I always
remembered it. But in looking back over plagues I've seen, the very
worst of all was snow. I'm afraid, when I see you again, you'll be all
skin and bone and shadow. I do hope you won't be sick like poor Hanson.
I had an awful sad letter from him; seems he took cold and's been at
death's door."
Pearl rustled the paper impatiently. She was not interested in this
news. Hanson occupied her thoughts so little that she did not even pause
to wonder how he was. The very sight of his name in the letter stirred a
vague irritation in her. Absorbed in her love for Seagreave, Hanson had
become to her as a forgotten episode.
However, her mother dropped the subject and took up the more interesting
one of Lolita. "That bird certainly has mourned for you, Pearl. I guess
she'd have just about pined away if it hadn't been for Bob Flick."
But Pearl was not the only recipient of letters from the outside world;
all of the little group, with the exception of Jose, had received their
quota, even Mrs. Nitschkan. But the bulk of the mail, which Gallito
brought up from the village postoffice and gravely distributed, fell to
Mrs. Thomas. Almost without exception, these envelopes were addressed in
straggling, masculine characters which suggested painful effort and
seemed to indicate that the writers were more used to the pick and
shovel than to the pen.
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