Sherman?” “Lonely.” Sherman had returned late to his boardinghouse. As on his first night in her home, Sherman had found Mrs. Marshall knitting in the parlor. She beckoned him with a two-handed wave of indigo yarn and said, “Come in, Mr. Sherman. Sit a spell.” “Thank you.” Sherman took a seat in an opposing chair positioned in front of the dead fireplace. “What’re you knitting?” “A cap. I have someone who sells them for me on Market Street.” “Isn’t it a bit hot for a knit cap?” Mrs. Marshall dropped the skewered heap of yarn into her lap. “Mr. Sherman,” she said in an exasperated tone, “I thought you were a smart man. In the winter, I tat lace for summer sale.” “The house doesn’t support you?” “Boarding has been good this year, but a little extra never hurts. Besides, I enjoy ending the day with handiwork. It soothes me, and this room seems cool after a day by the hearth.” “You’re an excellent cook.” “And I knit a tight cap—along with other talents.”
