"I know how you feel about the factory," said Dan, "and I wouldn't want you to go back in the finishing room. The office is different. You take my word for it; it's as nice a place as you could find."
They were standing on the doorless threshold of Number One, under the fan-shaped arch through which the light had failed to shine for twenty years. From the room on the left came the squeak of Mr. Demry's fiddle and the sound of pattering feet, synchronizing oddly with the lugubrious hymn in which Mrs. Smelts, in the room opposite, was giving vent to her melancholy.
Nance, eager for her chance, yearning for financial independence, obsessed by the desire to escape from the dirt and disorder and confusion about her, still hesitated.
"If you're afraid I'm going to worry you," said Dan, fumbling with his cap, "I can keep out of your way all right."
In an instant her impulsive hand was on his arm.
"You shut up, Dan Lewis!" she said sharply. "What makes me want to take the job most is our coming home together every night like we used to."
Dan's eyes, averted until now, lifted with sudden hope.
"But I got a good reason for not coming," she went on stubbornly. "It hasn't got anything to do with you or the work."
"Can't you tell me, Nance?"
The flicker of hope died out of his face as she shook her head. He looked down the alley for a moment; then he turned toward her with decision: