"The little woman eats well, doesn't she! She needs no tonic! All day long she sits in my parlour and rocks—and rocks."
"She does nothing?"
Madame shrugged.
"But yes! She reads novels!"
It was half-past six when I got into the streets. The midwinter sky is slowly breaking to dawn. The whole town white with fresh snow, and still half-wedded to night, is nevertheless stirring to life.
I become, after a block or two, one of a hurrying throng of labour-bound fellows—dark forms appear from streets and avenues, going in divers directions toward their homes. Homes? Where one passes most of one's life, is it not Home?
These figures to-day bend head and shoulders against the wind as it blows neck-coverings about, forces bare hands into coat pockets.
By the time the town has been traversed, railroad track crossed, and Parsons' in sight, day has nearly broken. Pink clouds float over factory roofs in a sky growing bluer, flushing to day.
