For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness. The wall of the sky, the wall of the horizon, the wall behind which each human being hid—the wall behind which she herself was hiding! If only her mother had lived, her darling mother! Presently the unhappy puzzlement left her face; and an inward glow began to lighten it. ’ ‘Truly?’ asked Melusine, warmth lighting her bosom. In mid-bite, she heard a car door slam that was recognizable. Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York.
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