“You better right-about-face and go home!” he said quietly. “You talk too damn much with your face. And we’re going to stop you. See?”
At that her flash of fear turned to anger:
“Try it,” she said hotly; and hurried on, her hand clutching the pistol in her wet muff, her eyes fixed on the unknown man.
“I’ve a mind to dust you good and plenty right here,” he said. “Quit your running, now, and beat it back again––” His vise-like grip was on her left arm, almost jerking her off her feet; and the next moment she struck him with her loaded pistol full in the face.
As he veered away, she saw the seam open from his cheek bone to his chin––saw the white face suddenly painted with wet scarlet.
The sight of the blood made her sick, but she kept her pistol levelled, backing away westward all the while.
There was an iron railing near; he went over and leaned against it as though stupefied.
And all the while she continued to retreat until, behind her, his dim shape merged into the foggy dark.
Then Palla turned and ran. And she was still breathing fast and unevenly when she came to that perfect blossom of vulgarity and apotheosis of all American sham––Broadway––where in the raw glare from a million lights the senseless crowds swept north and south.