"He's more of a gentleman, I guess, than that dirty old cobbler you like so, who spits and swears, and that Dago who sells fruit, and came over steerage."
"Jake isn't dirty—only on the outside, and Tony is not a Dago. He's a Greek and he comes from a place in Greece where the most beautiful things in the world came from! Besides, Jake and Tony don't kiss me, and Jake and Tony don't say horrid things to me about you."
"And what things did Ed say about me?"
"When you were out of the room he put his arm around me, and told me he thought you were pretty, too."
"Well?"
"He shouldn't have said that, should he? Not to me? The way he did?"
"Why not? I don't call that horrid."
"Don't you? Really?"
"Certainly not. Why shouldn't he say it, if he thought it?"
Laurel stared at her mother, confused, perplexed. She didn't know how to answer, how to explain. She had never liked Ed Munn, but her dislike of him had never swept over her like this. It was frightening. Her sudden hatred of the man was like a big dense cloud that had rolled upon her unawares and enveloped her completely. She had turned toward her mother for help, for comprehension. She had groped for a steadying hand. But no hand had been held out.
Suddenly Laurel turned and buried her face in the pillow on the couch and burst into violent weeping.
