207 She romanced a dark-haired farmer a few times, having long since forgotten his name. She sat on the edge of the bed —the wardress was too busy with the flood of arrivals that day to discover that she had it down—and her skin was shivering from the contact of these garments. Nothing to do; nothing for the hands, the mind, the heart. Sheila plucked it out of Lucy’s hamper with some of Lucy’s panties and brassieres, figuring that she’d help out because she was doing a load of whites anyway. ‘Of course. A young woman with a white badge on her arm stood and counted the sections as they entered their vans. Her stifled misery had betrayed her.
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