The next morning saw David on his way to the home of Joey Noakes, far
down town and to the west of Washington Square. He knew the house. He
had been there before. A narrow, quaint little place it was,
reminiscent in an exterior sort of way of the motley gentleman who
solemnly called it his castle. You climbed a tall stoop flanked on
either side by flower boxes, and rattled a heavy knocker that had all
the marks of English antiquity,--and English servility,--and then you
waited for the trim little housemaid, who betimes was a slavey below
stairs and not permitted to answer the knocker until she had donned
her cap and apron and rolled down her sleeves--and slipped on her
cuffs, for that matter. If you were an unpleasantly long time in
gaining admittance, you might be sure that she was also changing her
shoes or perhaps brushing her hair. In any event, after you knocked it
was some time before she opened the door, and then you were
immediately impressed by the conviction that her brightly shining face
had scarcely recovered from the application of a convenient "wash
rag," and that she seemed deplorably out of breath.
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