Now she is turned into the street with nothing! She dares not
return to her miserable boarding-place in Delancey street, for her
Irish landlady is clamorous for the two weeks' board now due. Six
dollars! The sum is enormous to her. She had expected that to-night she
could hand the Irish woman the money she had earned, and that it, with
a promise of more soon, might appease her. But now she has nothing for
her--nothing. Despair settles down upon her. Hunger is its companion,
for she has had no supper. Where shall she go?"
Night has come down since she left Delancey street, carrying the heavy
bundle of new-made shirts. The streets are lighted up, and are alive
with bustle. Heedless what course she takes, unnoticed, uncared-for by
any in the great ocean of humanity whose waves surge about her, she
wanders on, and by-and-by turns into Broadway. Broadway, ever
brilliant--with shop windows where wealth gleams in a thousand rare
and beautiful shapes; Broadway, with its crowding omnibuses and
on-pouring current of life, its Niagara roar, its dazzle--is utter
loneliness to her. The fiery letters over the theatre entrances are
glowing in all the colors of the rainbow. Gayly-attired ladies, girls
of her own age, blest with lovers or brothers, are streaming in at the
portal, beyond which she imagines every delight--music, and beauty, and
perfume of flowers, and _warmth_. She looks in longingly, hugging her
shivering shoulders under her sleazy shawl, till a policeman bids her
'move on.
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