The year was dead. The sparrows seemed to mourn as they hunched their little bodies on the warmth of sooty windowsills, and the starlings serenaded the dark sky with their long, descending metallic notes. All too soon the working day dawned for Polly. She had told her mother that she never wanted to see Westerman’s again. Mrs. Marsh had been horrified. One third of the country was living on starvation level. Unemployment was worse than during Victorian times. To turn down a good job was downright unchristian. She should be thankful that the only punishment her Maker had seen fit to mete out was a certain amount of social embarrassment. Mrs. Marsh bitterly regretted the elocution lessons. She deserved to be punished herself for giving her daughter ideas above her station. Polly must never, ever forget again that she was the daughter of working-class parents. A marriage into the lower middle class was possible, but no higher. Polly certainly thought she would never forget her position in life again.
