"Zoe, come to mother. _Mother!_ Daughter, they're shouting for you! Let
me hold your flowers, darling; they'll smother you!... You mean the one
with the yellow curls, madam? The valedictorian? That's my daughter!"
All the spots would come out in her eyes, like little "niggers" in a
pair of diamonds, and more often than not she would fall asleep then
with a crescent moon of a smile lying deeply into her face.
One day, after these weeks of minute fidelity to routine, she was
startled somewhat by a request from Robert Visigoth, in the form of a
note sent over to her desk, to remain after six to take some dictation.
The big temporary-looking office with its absence of partitions and
staring lack of privacy had become a paradoxical source of security to
her. In all the eight weeks, three of which, it is true, he had spent in
Chicago, she had not once encountered Robert Visigoth alone. She had
subconsciously developed the habit of peering down the dark stairs that
led to the stage door before descending them, and on one or two
occasions, when they chanced to pass, had flattened herself rather
unduly against the wall.
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