When she re-entered the taxicab she was half swooning of tears.
"Don't cry, baby," said the emboldened chauffeur, placing the small
pasteboard box up beside her.
* * * * *
In the great old-fashioned room in Fortieth Street--of two beds and two
decades ago--she finally in complete exhaustion slid into her white iron
cot against the wall, winding an alarm-clock and placing it on the floor
beside her.
Long before Miss Sylvette de Long, with her eyelids very dark, tiptoed
in, and, rubbing the calves of her legs in alcohol, undressed in the
dark, she was asleep, her mouth still moist and quivering like
a child's.
At nine-thirty and with dirty daylight cluttering up the cluttered room,
the alarm-clock, full of heinous vigor, bored like an awl into
the morning.
THE END
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