"Poor Granny doesn't understand who you are," explained Mrs. Lynch, in
an apologetic whisper, touching her head significantly. "Come here,
Susy," and she motioned the staring child to her. Susy approached with
the hang-back step of a child or a dog not always certain of what he may
get but Mrs. Lynch magically produced a round cookie, fat with currants,
and Susy sprang at her with a quick leap.
The room was heavy with stale air and bare of any comforts. A tattered
First Reader lay on the greasy floor, unwashed dishes cluttered the bare
pine table, on every available shelf and in every corner were piled old
cans and bottles and half-filled paper bags. On a what-not in the corner
a faded bunch of pink paper roses drooped over a cracked vase. The
wallpaper, its ugly pattern mercifully faded, was fantastically streaked
from the dampness, in one corner the ceiling plaster had fallen and
newspapers had been tacked over the laths to keep out the cold.
A sickening revulsion, a longing to escape into the sweet crisp air
swept Robin. She shrank away into a corner for fear the dreadful old
Granny might touch her.
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