Nevertheless, she was very careful not to allow Claire to see the address on the letter, which she mailed in the first box they passed.
When Mrs. Larry, armed with market quotations, entered the Dahlgren market, with its glittering marble slabs, its white-coated cutters, and its generally up-to-the-minute air, she felt a sudden sinking in the region of her heart. "Jud," the rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed cutter, who always took her order, came forward, book in hand.
"What is it this morning?"
"A roast of beef"
"Two ribs or three?" he suggested, already writing the order.
"I think I'd like to see it."
"Certainly. Bill, let me have that prime rib, rolled. No, the other cut."
A helper produced a roast, beautifully rolled, all crimson flesh, flecked with rich, creamy-white fat. Jud tossed it on the scales, and in a flash had it off again.
"Not quite eight pounds—two dollars and thirty-two cents. Can't be beat for slicing down
