(Via:Here.)
Years of sipping drinks and cessation manifested in her face—despite the curious layers of rice powder and rouge—but Greenwood Junction danced to her piping.
A sequel to scene 6
Julia gave a scant snicker of condescension—as she watched the interloper waiting unchaperoned—on the bumpy boards of the walk—the oval face becoming peaky by the jiffy. Beneath embellishly fringed and curled orange hair—the bordello madam's tinted lips curved in a tigerish grin.
The girl would be no contestant—that much was for sure. Why there was nothing to her! Julia was comforted. Wouldn't she chiack Louis about his lah-de-dah—little missus the next time he visited her? Wouldn't she just! And—she was at it—she'd give him a piece of her brain power. She'd prophesied him last night—and he hadn't shown up at all. He'd pay for that—one way or another.
Julia's name was no attestation of her spirit. There was no benignity in her—no touchy-feely heart beneath the cramped bodice of gold satin gussied up with black silk braiding. Years of sipping drinks and cessation manifested in her face—despite the curious layers of rice powder and rouge—but Greenwood Junction danced to her piping.
She was a woman of capacity in her confined domain—and hardly any people bothered to remember that—she had been unpretentious Chloé from Manhattan when she'd first arrived. Perspicacious and sturdy, with a heavy-boned, rather mannish build—she was inexorably belligerent and swift to take offense. A tiny slightly was come back tenfold. What a substantial abuse might result in was unknown: no one had ever tried it.
She set her half-emptied glass of whiskey down on the fringe of the dresser. "Well, I won't have much to worry about with that one! Skinny and too frumpy by half….." With a gratified grin—she let the curtain drop and went out into the corridor until she arrived the end room. She gave two stabbing knocks on the door—with the rear of her hand.
"Get a hustle on, Sal! Stage just lugged in." She hastened back to her vantage point. She awaited—until she heard the long sigh and swishs of movement within. "And get that new Mexican kid ready. Murdock likes the young ones."
Back down in the street—Agathe's agitation had given away to candid vexation. Any of the pupils of Miss Sophia's Academy would have conceded the signs: her eyes, clouded with emotion, profounded to violet, and the mushy lips squeezed into a firm line. Wheeling about sharply—she paced along the wooden walkaway toward the stage office—the heels of her half-boots echoing in the vacantness.