I ain't the man I used to be--I mean, the woman." He waited, his small eyes gentle.

What woman can altogether resist sympathy, even from a fat man and a cook?
Not even the redoubtable soul of a Sally.
She confessed: "I feel sort of hollow and gone--around the stomach, Fatty." "Eat," suggested the cook.

"I just took out a pie that would--" "But it ain't the stomach.

It's like bein' hungry and wantin' no food.
Fatty, d'you think I'm sick ?" "You look kind of whitish." "Fatty, I feel--" She hesitated, as though too great a confession were at her lips, but she stumbled on: "I feel as if I was afraid of somethin', or someone." "That," said Bert confidently, "ain't possible.

It's the stomach, Sally.
Something ain't agreed with you." She turned from him with a vague gesture of despair.
"If this here feelin' is goin' to keep up--why, I wisht I was dead--I wisht I was dead!" She went on to the swinging door, paused there to dab her eyes swiftly, started to whistle a tune, and in this fashion marched back to the eating-room.