It was after one o'clock and she had breakfasted at eleven, so, deciding
to forego luncheon, she started for a walk in the Park. At three there
would be a mail. She would be back by three.
It was an afternoon of premature spring. Water was drying on the walks
and in the Park little girls were gravely wheeling white doll-buggies up
and down under the thin trees while behind them followed bored
nursery-maids in two's, discussing with each other those tremendous
secrets that are peculiar to nursery-maids.
Two o'clock by her little gold watch. She should have a new watch, one
made in a platinum oblong and incrusted with diamonds--but those cost
even more than squirrel coats and of course they were out of her reach
now, like everything else--unless perhaps the right letter was awaiting
her ... in about an hour ... fifty-eight minutes exactly. Ten to get
there left forty-eight ... forty-seven now ...
Little girls soberly wheeling their buggies along the damp sunny walks.
The nursery-maids chattering in pairs about their inscrutable secrets.
Here and there a raggedy man seated upon newspapers spread on a drying
bench, related not to the radiant and delightful afternoon but to the
dirty snow that slept exhausted in obscure corners, waiting for
extermination.
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