The candy store on the corner was brilliantly lighted and
was filling up, while the green and yellow lamps from the drug store
directly opposite threw kaleidoscopic reflections deep down into the
shining surface of the asphalt. A band of Salvationists began to play
and pray in front of Frenna's saloon. Trina hurried on down the gay
street, with its evening's brilliancy and small activities, her shawl
over her head, one hand lifting her faded skirt from off the wet
pavements. She turned into the alley, entered Zerkow's old home by the
ever-open door, and ran up-stairs to the room. Nobody.
"Why, isn't this FUNNY," she exclaimed, half aloud, standing on the
threshold, her little milk-white forehead curdling to a frown, one sore
finger on her lips. Then a great fear seized upon her. Inevitably she
associated the house with a scene of violent death.
"No, no," she said to the darkness, "Mac is all right. HE can take
care of himself." But for all that she had a clear-cut vision of her
husband's body, bloated with seawater, his blond hair streaming like
kelp, rolling inertly in shifting waters.
"He couldn't have fallen off the rocks," she declared firmly.
"There--THERE he is now.
Pages:
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409