On the corner near Sammy's he paused
undecided--if he went back to the apartment, as he felt his body
required, he would lay himself open to bitter reproach; yet, now that
the pawnshops were closed, he had no notion where to get the money. He
decided finally that he might ask Parker Allison, after all--but he
approached Sammy's only to find the door locked and the lights out. He
looked at his watch; nine-thirty. He began walking.
Ten minutes later he stopped aimlessly at the corner of Forty-third
Street and Madison Avenue, diagonally across from the bright but nearly
deserted entrance to the Biltmore Hotel. Here he stood for a moment, and
then sat down heavily on a damp board amid some debris of construction
work. He rested there for almost half an hour, his mind a shifting
pattern of surface thoughts, chiefest among which were that he must
obtain some money and get home before he became too sodden to find
his way.
Then, glancing over toward the Biltmore, he saw a man standing directly
under the overhead glow of the porte-cochere lamps beside a woman in an
ermine coat. As Anthony watched, the couple moved forward and signalled
to a taxi.
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