And yet,
perhaps it was not strange, seeing the sharp preoccupation of the
faces--the people had something on their minds; they could not stop
to bother about dirt and danger.
Mary Vertrees was not often down-town; she had never seen an accident
until this afternoon. She had come upon errands for her mother
connected with a timorous refurbishment; and as she did these, in
and out of the department stores, she had an insistent consciousness
of the Sheridan Building. From the street, anywhere, it was almost
always in sight, like some monstrous geometrical shadow, murk-colored
and rising limitlessly into the swimming heights of the smoke-mist.
It was gaunt and grimy and repellent; it had nothing but strength
and size--but in that consciousness of Mary's the great structure
may have partaken of beauty. Sheridan had made some of the things
he said emphatic enough to remain with her. She went over and over
them--and they began to seem true: "Only ONE girl he could feel THAT
sorry for!" "Gurney says he's got you on his brain so bad--" The
man's clumsy talk began to sing in her heart. The song was begun
there when she saw the accident.
She was directly opposite the Sheridan Building then, waiting for the
traffic to thin before she crossed, though other people were risking
the passage, darting and halting and dodging parlously.
Pages:
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413