Many figures could be seen flitting about
in the shadows. Usually these figures were in pairs; usually one was in
white; usually at her waist-line there was a black belt that continued on
until it was lost in the other and darker figure.
Scraps of a score of languages--curses, jests, terms of endearment--would
float up to him. Then came the hours of comparative silence, with the city
breathing softly and regularly, with the moon hanging low and the pale arch
rising above the dark trees like a giant ghost. There would be an
occasional drunken shout or shriek; a riotous roar of song from some
staggering reveller making company for himself on the journey home; the
heavy step of the policeman. Or perhaps the only sound to disturb the
city's sleep would be that soft tread, timid as a mouse's, stealthy as a
jackal's--the tread of a lonely woman with draggled silk skirt and painted
cheeks and eyes burning into the darkness, and a heart as bitter and as sad
as no money, no home, no friends, no hope can make it.
Once he threw a silver dollar from his window to the sidewalk well in front
of her. She did not see it flash downward but she heard it ring upon the
walk. She rushed forward and twice kicked it away from her in her frenzy to
get it.
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