Even to Hanna de Long, hurrying eastward on Forty-second Street, huggingly against the shadow of darkened shop-windows, there was a new sting of tears at the smell of earth, daring, in the lull of a city night, to steal out.
There are always these dark figures that scuttle thus through the first hours of the morning.
Whither?
Twice remarks were flung after her from passing figures in slouch-hats—furtive remarks through closed lips.
At five minutes past one she was at the ticket-office grating of a train-terminal that was more ornate than a rajah's dream.
"Adalia—please. Huh? Ohio. Next train."
"Seven-seven. Track nine. Round trip?"
"N-no."
"Eighteen-fifty."
She again bit open the corner knot of her handkerchief.