He listened to old Rose clashing the kitchen utensils. As he drew on his
damp underwear, he wondered what he could say to old Rose that would
persuade her into a little kindliness and tolerance for the white
people. As he listened he felt hopeless; he could never explain to the
old creature that her own happiness depended upon the charity she
extended to others. She could never understand it. She would live and
die precisely the same bitter old beldam that she was, and nothing could
ever assuage her.
While Peter was thinking of the old creature, she came shuffling along
the back piazza with his breakfast. She let herself in by lifting one
knee to a horizontal, balancing the tray on it, then opening the door
with her freed hand.
When the shutter swung open, it displayed the crone standing on one
foot, wearing a man's grimy sock, which had fallen down over a broken,
run-down shoe.
In Peter's mood the thought of this wretched old woman putting on such
garments morning after morning was unspeakably pathetic. He thought of
his own mother, who had lived and died only a shade or two removed from
the old crone's condition.
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