“I’m delighted,” he said. Which, far from straining truth, perhaps restrained it.
So he got his hat and overcoat, and they went out together into the winter sunshine.
Angelo Puma, seated in a taxi across the street, observed them. He wore a gardenia in his lapel. He might have followed Palla had she emerged alone from the offices of Sharrow & Co.
Shotwell Junior had a jolly morning of it. And, if the routine proved a trifle monotonous, Palla, too, appeared to amuse herself.
She inspected various types of houses, expensive and inexpensive, modern and out of date, well built and well kept and “jerry-built” and dirty.
Prices and rents painfully surprised her, and she gave up any idea of renting a furnished house, and so informed Shotwell.
So they restricted their inspection to three-story unfurnished and untenanted houses, where the neighbourhood was less pretentious and there was a better light in the rear.
But they all were dirty, neglected, out of repair, destitute of decent plumbing and electricity.
On the second floor of one of these Palla stood, discouraged, perplexed, gazing absently out, across a filthy back yard full of seedling ailanthus trees and rubbish, at the rear fire escapes on the tenements beyond.