The door banged. She was gone.
Mrs. Kennedy laid the baby on the bed.
"Cry, if you must," she said. "I can’t hold you any more till I’ve had a cup of tea."
IV
Angelica had gone running up the street to a drug-store on Sixth Avenue, where she knew there was a telephone booth. It was a place of doubtful repute. There was always a group there of young Italian-Americans, flashily dressed youths of immense assurance, who were interested in every woman that entered the store; but they didn’t care for Angelica in her slatternly dress, with her fierce and haggard face.
One of them made a coarse jest about her, which she answered with an oath; then she went into the booth and pulled the door to behind her. Her heart was beating frantically; she was scarcely able to speak, her hoarse voice came out with an unfamiliar sound.
"I want to speak to Mr. Vincent!" she said.
"Who is it?"
"Call him quick! It’s a message from his brother." A silly ruse, but she was capable of nothing better. Then, after a long pause, she heard his voice.
"What is it?"