A handsome black-moire length of ribbon off a beaded basque her
father gimme our first Christmas married."
"I'll lend her my pink pearls to wear. Honest, I never knew a girl could
wear pink like Stella."
Miss Schump leaned forward in the lamplight, the myriad of tight little
braids at angles, but her eyes widening to their astounding blueness.
"Not your--pink beads, Cora?"
"You heard me the first time, didn't you? 'Pink' was what I said."
"Ma!"
"Now ain't that nice of Cora?"
"Quick--are you game?"
"Why, yes--Cora."
* * * * *
There is a section of New York which rays out rather crazily from old
Jefferson Market and Night Court in spokes of small streets that seem
to run at haphazard angles each to the other--that less sooty part of
Greenwich not yet invaded by the Middle West in search of bohemia. An
indescribable smack of Soho here, tired old rows of tired old houses
going down year by year before the wrecker's ax, the model tenement
rising insolently before the scar is cold.
It is that part of the Latin Quarter which is literally just that, lying
slightly to the south and slightly to the west of that odd-fellow's land
of short-haired women and long-haired men.
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