She covered the bureau and sewing
machine with sheets, and unhooked the chenille portieres between the
bedroom and the sitting-room. As she was tying the Nottingham lace
curtains at the window into great knots, she saw old Miss Baker on the
opposite sidewalk in the street below, and raising the sash called down
to her.
"Oh, it's you, Mrs. McTeague," cried the retired dressmaker, facing
about, her head in the air. Then a long conversation was begun, Trina,
her arms folded under her breast, her elbows resting on the
window ledge, willing to be idle for a moment; old Miss Baker, her
market-basket on her arm, her hands wrapped in the ends of her worsted
shawl against the cold of the early morning. They exchanged phrases,
calling to each other from window to curb, their breath coming from
their lips in faint puffs of vapor, their voices shrill, and raised to
dominate the clamor of the waking street. The newsboys had made their
appearance on the street, together with the day laborers. The cable cars
had begun to fill up; all along the street could be seen the shopkeepers
taking down their shutters; some were still breakfasting. Now and then
a waiter from one of the cheap restaurants crossed from one sidewalk to
another, balancing on one palm a tray covered with a napkin.
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