Explore "Diverging Roads" by Rose Wilder Lane on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The next day she dressed very carefully in a fresh white waist and her Indianhead skirt and went down to the telegraph-office to ask for a job. She knew where to find the office; she had often looked at its plate-glass front lettered in blue during her lonely walks on the crowded street. Her heart thumped loudly and her knees were weak when she went through the open door.
The big room was cut across by a long counter, on which a young man lounged in his shirtsleeves, a green eyeshade pushed back on his head. Behind him telegraph instruments clattered loudly, disturbing the stifling quiet of the hot morning. The young man looked at her curiously.