I grieve over my contact with such a city. It is no place for a lady. (Is here any lady?) It is just the place for a man.
No show marked “Only for a Man” is respectable, I dare say.
Are Chicago men “gentlemen?”
They are not sensitive about their hats in the hotel elevator. The laundry work isn’t superb, I judge, as not every one’s shirt is snowy as a San Franciscan’s. I cannot blame their black finger-nails, as they live in smoke.
Even the Frisco smoke hindered my breath at my opening moment in Amerikey. I should have died, if it had been Chicago.
Bodily cleanliness is the first chapter in the whitening of the soul. How many mortals are there here with a clear soul?
“Chicago is Mr. Nobody without the smoke, like Japan without a fan. The prosperity of a modern city is measured by the bulk of its smoke, Morning Glory. But I don’t approve of their using a cheap coal. Health has to be guarded,” my uncle said.
A driver carried us from the station as if we were pigs.
Mind you, this is Chicago illustrious for its hams.
I barred my ears with my hands in the carriage. The thunderous noise menaced me so.