Maud Martha loved it when her magazines said “New York,” described “good” objects there, wonderful people there, recalled fine talk, the bristling or the creamy or the tactfully shimmering ways of life. They showed pictures of rooms with wood paneling, softly glowing, touched up by the compliment of a spot of auburn here, the low burn of a rare

Annie Allen (1949) won the Pulitzer Prize in 1950, making her the first ever Black author to do so;

And these things—roaches, and having to be satisfied with the place as it was—were not the only annoyances that had to be reckoned with. She was becoming aware of an oddness in color and sound and smell about her, the color and sound and smell of the kitchenette building. The color was gray, and the smell and sound had taken on a suggestion of the

“He’ll have to take me,” thought Maud Martha. “For the envelope is addressed ‘Mr. and Mrs.,’ and I opened it. I guess he’d like to leave me home. At the Ball, there will be only beautiful girls, or real stylish ones. There won’t be more than a handful like me. My type is not a Foxy Cat favorite. But he can’t avoid taking me—since he hasn’t yet

She could neither resolve nor dismiss. There were these scraps of baffled hate in her, hate with no eyes, no smile and—this she especially regretted, called her hungriest lack—not much voice.

He wanted a dog. A good dog. No mongrel. An apartment—well-furnished, containing a good bookcase, filled with good books in good bindings. He wanted a phonograph, and records. The symphonies. And Yehudi Menuhin. He wanted some good art. These things were not extras. They went to make up a good background. The kind of background those guys had.

“Power’ll still be up—prob’ly sprawling on that white rug of his, with Parrington in front of ’im,” laughed David. It was, Maud Martha observed, one of the conceits of David McKemster that he did not have to use impeccable English all the time. Sometimes it was permissible to make careful slips. These must be, however, when possible, sandwiched in

After their second dance he escorted her to a bench by the wall, left her. Trying to look nonchalant, she sat. She sat, trying not to show the inferiority she did not feel.

“I’m Mrs. Burns-Cooper,” said the woman, “and after this, well, it’s all right this time, because it’s your first time, but after this time always use the back entrance.” There is a pear in my icebox, and one end of rye bread. Except for three Irish potatoes and a cup of flour and the empty Christmas boxes, there is absolutely nothing on my shelf.