Their new apartment, for which they paid eighty-five dollars a month,
was situated on Claremont Avenue, which is two blocks from the Hudson in
the dim hundreds. They had lived there a month when Muriel Kane came to
see them late one afternoon.
It was a reproachless twilight on the summer side of spring. Anthony lay
upon the lounge looking up One Hundred and Twenty-seventh Street toward
the river, near which he could just see a single patch of vivid green
trees that guaranteed the brummagem umbrageousness of Riverside Drive.
Across the water were the Palisades, crowned by the ugly framework of
the amusement park--yet soon it would be dusk and those same iron
cobwebs would be a glory against the heavens, an enchanted palace set
over the smooth radiance of a tropical canal.
The streets near the apartment, Anthony had found, were streets where
children played--streets a little nicer than those he had been used to
pass on his way to Marietta, but of the same general sort, with an
occasional hand organ or hurdy-gurdy, and in the cool of the evening
many pairs of young girls walking down to the corner drug-store for ice
cream soda and dreaming unlimited dreams under the low heavens.
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