"No."
"Remember the time we went down in Tracy's basement for a little alcohol-stove you wanted for your breakfasts? The girl at the counter thought we—we were spliced."
"Yeh!" Miss Flint's voice was faint as the thud of a nut to the ground.
They shot down fifteen fireproof stories in a breath-taking elevator, and then out on the whitest, brightest Broadway in the world, where the dreary trilogy of Wine, Woman, and Song is played from noon to dawn, with woman the cheapest of the three.
"How's Addie?"
"She don't complain, but she gets whiter and whiter—poor kid! I got her some new crutches, Goldie—swell mahogany ones with silver tips. You ought to see her get round on them!"
"I—I been so busy—night-work and—and—"
"She's been asking about you every night, Goldie. It ain't like you to stay away like this."
Their breaths clouded before them in the stinging air, and down the length of the enchanted highway lights sprang out of the gloom and winked at them like naughty eyes.
"What's the matter, Goldie? You ain't mad at me—us—are you?"