Her frock was that of the sales-woman, her gloves were badly worn, her boots began to show signs of breaking, her hat was of nondescript sort, of small pretensions--yet Mary Warren's attitude, less of weariness than of resistance, had something of the ivory-fine gentlewoman about it, even here at the end of a rasping winter day.
Annie Squires was dressed with a trifle more of the pretension which ten dollars a week allows.

She carried a sort of rude and frank vitality about her, a healthful color in her face, not wholly uncomely.
She was a trifle younger than Mary Warren--the latter might have been perhaps five and twenty; perhaps a little older, perhaps not quite so old--but none the less seemed if not the more strong, at least the more self-confident of the two.

A great-heart, Annie Squires; out of nothing, bound for nowhere.

Two great-hearts, indeed, these two tired girls, going home.
"Well, the Dutch seems to be having their own troubles now," said Annie after a time, when at length the two were able to find seats, a trifle to themselves in a corner of the car.

"Looks like they might learn how the war thing goes the other way 'round.