The face of my grandmother pulled awry with grief and flowing tears. Aunt Millie wept, too.
No, I wouldn't leave them. I would stay with them, work till I was rich and prosperous, never marry, give all my life to taking care of them, to saving them from the bitter grinding poverty we had shared together.
I ran into the vestibule. But the train was gathering speed so rapidly that I did not dare jump off.
I took my seat again. Soon my tears dried.
The trees flapped by. The telegraph poles danced off in irregular lines. I became acquainted with my fellow passengers. I was happy.
I made romance out of every red and green lamp in the railroad yards we passed through, out of the dingy little restaurants in which I ate....
The mysterious swaying to and fro of the curtains in the sleeper thrilled me, as I looked out from my narrow berth.
In the smoker I listened till late to the talk of the drummers who clenched big black cigars between their teeth, or slender Pittsburgh stogies, expertly flicking off the grey ash with their little fingers, as they yarned.
I wore a tag on my coat lapel with my name and destination written on it. My grandmother had put it there in a painful, scrawling hand.