After dipping a rag into the pan, she smeared it with lampblack and began rubbing the boot. Polishing boots and shoes was one of her least favorite tasks. The combination of wax, oil, and lampblack made a mess. But at least the results were satisfying: The boots always looked much nicer when she was finished, almost like new.

She didn’t end up going back to bed after all. Instead she took out and unfolded the brown paper she used for sketching, and began to draw.

None of her dress sketches were drawings of specific people. An oval for a head, a few quick pencil strokes for hair, no facial features. This time, though, she drew a dress on a slim, willowy body.

Dolly’s.

She included every detail that she thought Dolly would want, the very latest style from back east. A polonaise: a long jacket-like bodice that flowed into an overskirt open at the front, with an underskirt of tier after tier of lace. Ruffles at the neckline. A large satin bow on the bustle.

It was a strange kind of revenge. She was drawing Dolly a dress that she would covet hungrily—and never be able to own.

As she mixed up biscuit for supper, Hanna considered whether to tell Papa about what had happened with Dolly and her father. Papa had seen such mockery and heard the insults plenty of times, aimed at Mama. Shortly before she died, Mama had spoken to Hanna a few times about being bullied and mocked. Hanna sensed that Mama was bringing up the subject because she knew she wouldn’t be around much longer, and the thought had made Hanna too sad to heed Mama as she should have.

But she had a vague memory of what Mama had told her. Mama and Papa had been out for a walk in Los Angeles, a few weeks after their marriage. A man had mocked and insulted Mama, which made Papa so angry that he had throttled the man half to death. Mama had been terrified that Papa would be arrested and charged with assault.

So Hanna had perceived that whenever possible, she needed to shield Papa from knowing about such episodes. But it was complicated.

“Your Papa, he’s a good man. A good heart,” Mama said. “Most white men? They think that Chinese women are only for—for fun. They would never marry a Chinese woman.”

Papa loved Hanna and Mama, but at the same time, it was hard on him knowing that most white folks disapproved of them . . . and it was never easy for anyone, including Papa, to get rid of attitudes they had grown up with.