Here on
One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street there were Salvation Army bands and
spectrum-shawled old ladies on door-steps and sugary, sticky candy in
the grimy hands of shiny-haired children--and the late sun striking down
on the sides of the tall tenements. All very rich and racy and savory,
like a dish by a provident French chef that one could not help enjoying,
even though one knew that the ingredients were probably left-overs....
Gloria shuddered suddenly as a river siren came moaning over the dusky
roofs, and leaning back in till the ghostly curtains fell from her
shoulder, she turned on the electric lamp. It was growing late. She knew
there was some change in her purse, and she considered whether she would
go down and have some coffee and rolls where the liberated subway made a
roaring cave of Manhattan Street or eat the devilled ham and bread in
the kitchen. Her purse decided for her. It contained a nickel and
two pennies.
After an hour the silence of the room had grown unbearable, and she
found that her eyes were wandering from her magazine to the ceiling,
toward which she stared without thought. Suddenly she stood up,
hesitated for a moment, biting at her finger--then she went to the
pantry, took down a bottle of whiskey from the shelf and poured herself
a drink.
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