“I’m on the way, Barry.”
She was on the way. But it was the feminine way.
First of all she had a toilet to make, a complete change of clothing to effect. No girl ever lived who would deny herself that much before she braved her lover.
She went to the windows to reassure herself that the shades were properly lowered. Her taxi was both visible and audible below. She noticed nothing else in the street except that it was beginning to rain.
Probably she could not have recognised Smull, even if she had caught sight of him on the opposite side of the way.
There is an old brick building there, untenanted, its shabby façade running westward toward the North River.
Against it Smull stood in darkness.
But already another person had discovered Smull; had recognised him; and now was shuffling slowly along toward him.
The last bit of rubbish in the Dust Pan.
Smull, intent on the lighted windows above, did not notice The Rubbish until it had drifted close to his elbow. Then he turned. It did not suit Smull to have any altercation then or there.