“Let me see,” she said, speaking half to the girl, half to herself, “No, I can’t go tomorrow. How will the day after do?”
“That will be fine.”
“You’ll meet me here at this same hour?”
“Yes.”
“Fine. Then I’ll be going.” Florence held out a hand. “Goodbye and good luck. I have a feeling,” she added as a sort of afterthought, “that we are going to do a lot of exploring together, you and I.”
As she hurried toward Sandy’s glass box Florence repeated, “An awful lot.” At that, she had not the faintest notion what a truly awful lot that would be.
CHAPTER VII
THE BRIGHT SHAWL
When Jeanne left that place of many gypsies who were not gypsies, she quickly lost herself in the throng that ever jams the narrow sidewalks on Maxwell Street. She was glad, for the moment, to be away from that place. It somehow frightened her. But she would go back; this she knew. When one is looking for a certain person, one looks into many faces, to at last exclaim, “This is the one!” Jeanne was looking for a certain thieving gypsy woman. She must look into many gypsy faces.
But now, pushed this way, then that by the throng, she listened with deaf ears, as she had often done before, to the many strange cries and entreaties about her. “Lady, buy this! Buy this and wear diamonds.” “Shoe strings, five cents a dozen! Shoe strings!” “Nize ripe bananas!” “Here, lady, look! Look! A fine coat with Persian lamb collar, only seventeen dollars!” The cries increased as she passed through the thick of it. Then they began to quiet down.
As she looked ahead, Jeanne spied a crowd thicker than all the rest. It centered about a rough board stand. Since she was a small child Jeanne had been unable to resist crowds. She pressed forward until she was in the thick of this one.