Beneath the line he wrote, swiftly, all nervous energy, sudden red spots on his haggard cheeks—“CHAPTER ONE.”
“They stood at the door...”
This, you recall, was the beginning of the strongest novel that has come out of Greenwich Village in many a year.
CHAPTER XXXIII—EARTHY BROWNS AND GREENS
AT about two o'clock in the afternoon on a Saturday in early September Sue Wilde opened a letter from the Worm.
Before dropping on the stiff walnut chair Sue had closed the door; ruffled by the feeling that it must be closed, conscious even of guilt. For it was a tenet of Aunt Matilda's, as of Mrs. Wilde's, that a woman should not sit down before mid-afternoon, and not then on Mondays, Wednesdays or Saturdays. And here her bed was not yet made.
“Dear Sue (so the letter ran)—Herewith my check for the September rent. Sorry to be late. I forgot it.”
The letter sank to her lap. Pictures rose—memories. She saw the half-furnished little apartment on Tenth Street, in the heart of the old Village where she had spent the two busiest, most disturbing, yet—yes, happiest years of her life.