How could old Dibble work in this stewpot of a kitchen? The range emitted great belches of warmth all day long, because the Rector had to keep his strength up with good hot meals, praise the Lord. The windows and doors might be open, but that only let a fresh blast of heat in from outside. Mrs D. looked like a turkey with her thin neck red with heat sticking out from her high black collar. Greatly daring, Harriet had undone the top button of her print dress, only to have the sainted Miss Pilbeam yell at her. Now old Dibble was, judging by her expression, about to do the same thing. The Rectory, Harriet admitted grudgingly, wasn’t a bad situation, but any position in service meant long, back-breaking hours whether the sun was scorching or Jack Frost was freezing you. Perhaps she could go and work in a factory; some girls did. Or be one of them typists? She was good with her hands. She wondered vaguely how she would go about this, and when no answer was forthcoming, dismissed the idea.
