The Murrays share an unimposing house with her mother, who buys the groceries, and her brother, who pays the gas, light and phone bills. We get enough in contributions to whittle down the mortgage for our building and our postage bills. Postage is our biggest expense. Mrs. Murray's office from outside looks deceptively placid except for a patched broken window on the second floor. Within, one is reminded simultaneously of college humor magazine, a hospital emergency ward and a church rummage sale at closing time.
Volunteers bring their cantankerous babies.
The Murray dog gets loose and romps up the street, and must be chased by earnest, hand-wringing young men who look as though they'd rather be writing thoughtful tracts. Coffee water boils away on the hot plate. Toothbrushes and bobby pins, testimony to all-night work sessions, clutter the sink of the powder room. A benign, elderly atheist who looks like an ad for Vermont maple syrup drops by to wish Mrs. Murray well, and is put to work stuffing envelopes. The phones ring incessantly, frequently long- distance.