But they did not save. They moved again, to a pleasanter
apartment, and Hannah did washing and cooking, and Grace came, to
help with the children. Nancy began to make calls again, and had
the children's pictures taken, for Grandmother Bradley, and
sometimes gave luncheons, with cards to follow. She and Bert could
go to the theatre again, and, if it was raining, could come home
in a taxicab.
It was a modest life, even with all this prosperity. Nancy had
still enough to do, mending piled up, marketing grew more
complicated, and on alternate Thursdays and Sundays she herself
had to fill Hannah's place, or Grace's place. They began to think
that life would be simpler in the country, and instead of taking
the children to the parks, as was their happy Sunday custom, they
went now to Jersey, to Westchester, and to Staten Island.
The houses they passed, hundreds and hundreds of them, filled them
with enthusiasm. Sunday was a pleasant day, in the suburbs. The
youngsters, everywhere, were in white--frolicking about open
garage doors, bareheaded on their bicycles, barefooted beside
beaches or streams. Their mothers, also white-clad, were busy with
agreeable pursuits--gathering roses, or settling babies for naps
in shaded hammocks.
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