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- Джон Стейнбек
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While
Margie
and
Mary
went
through
their
pleasant
litany
,
"
What
have
you
done
with
your
hair
?
"
.
.
.
"
I
like
it
"
.
.
.
"
That
’
s
your
color
.
You
should
always
wear
it
"
—
the
harmless
recognition
signals
of
women
—
I
thought
of
the
most
feminine
story
I
ever
heard
.
Two
women
meet
.
One
cries
,
"
What
have
you
done
with
your
hair
?
It
looks
like
a
wig
.
"
"
It
is
a
wig
.
"
"
Well
,
you
’
d
never
know
it
.
"
Maybe
these
are
deeper
responses
than
we
know
or
have
any
right
to
know
.
Dinner
was
a
series
of
exclamations
about
the
excellence
of
the
roast
chicken
and
denials
that
it
was
edible
.
Ellen
studied
our
guest
with
a
recording
eye
,
every
detail
of
hairdress
and
make
-
up
.
And
I
knew
then
how
young
they
start
the
minute
examination
on
which
they
base
what
is
called
their
intuition
.
Ellen
avoided
my
eyes
.
She
knew
she
had
shot
to
kill
and
she
expected
revenge
.
Very
well
,
my
savage
daughter
.
I
shall
revenge
myself
in
the
cruelest
way
you
can
imagine
.
I
shall
forget
it
.
And
it
was
a
good
dinner
,
over
-
rich
and
too
much
of
it
,
as
company
dinners
must
be
,
and
a
mountain
of
dishes
not
ordinarily
used
.
And
coffee
afterward
,
which
we
do
not
ordinarily
have
.
"
Doesn
’
t
it
keep
you
awake
?
"
"
Nothing
keeps
me
awake
.
"
"
Not
even
me
?
"
"
Ethan
!
"
And
then
the
silent
,
deadly
war
of
the
dishes
.
"
Let
me
help
.
"
