His emotions began to trouble him. An unrest stirred his body.
“I should have gone in there and taken her away from him,” he mused, and then with a shudder he walked on—smiling.
Gratitude
The avenue bubbled brightly under the grey rain.
The afternoon crowd had melted from the sidewalk, washed into hallways and under awnings by the downpour.
It began to look like evening. A refreshing gloom settled over the street.
The wind leaped out of alley courts and byways and raced over the pavement accompanied by spattering arpeggios of rain.
Moisse, the young dramatist, turned into the avenue. His voluminous black raincoat, reaching from his ears to his shoe tops, flapped in front of him.
By exercising the most diligent effort, however, he managed rather to saunter than walk, and he kept his eyes raptly fixed upon the deserted stretch of shining cement.
As he moved peacefully along he repeated to himself: