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Updated: May 2, 2025
Say, if I were a sea-gull, and all over silver, think I'd care what a pack of dirty seals thought about my flying?" It was not the wind at her back, it was the thrust of Bjornstam's scorn which carried her through town. She faced Juanita Haydock, cocked her head at Maud Dyer's brief nod, and came home to Bea radiant. She telephoned Vida Sherwin to "run over this evening."
"'Bjornstam's my name, Ezra, I says. HE knows my name, all rightee. "'Well, whatever your name is, he says, 'I understand you have a gasoline saw. I want you to come around and saw up four cords of maple for me, he says. "'So you like my looks, eh? I says, kind of innocent. "'What difference does that make? Want you to saw that wood before Saturday, he says, real sharp.
She sat in the dining-room and listened through the door to Bjornstam's booming and Bea's giggles. She was the more absurd to herself in that, after the rite of dining alone, she could go out to the kitchen, lean against the sink, and talk to them. They were attracted to each other; a Swedish Othello and Desdemona, more useful and amiable than their prototypes.
She saw the women who made bandages for the Red Cross giving up bridge, and laughing at having to do without sugar, but over the surgical-dressings they did not speak of God and the souls of men, but of Miles Bjornstam's impudence, of Terry Gould's scandalous carryings-on with a farmer's daughter four years ago, of cooking cabbage, and of altering blouses.
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