That's all."
"But what they arrest you for, Blanche? I knew it was a mistake. But what
they arrest you for, Blanche? I gave him $10."
"Aw, shut up! Don't bother me."
The woman shrugged her shoulders and turned to the child in her arms.
"Da-ah-ah, Paula. Mamma feed you right away. Soon we find place to sit
down. Shh, Paula! Mus'n't. Da-ah-ah--"
When she looked up Blanche had vanished. She stood still for a while and
then, holding the year-old child closer to her, walked toward the
elevator. There was nothing to see in her eyes.
CLOCKS AND OWL CARS
As they say in the melodramas, the city sleeps. Windows have said
good-night to one another. Rooftops have tucked themselves away. The
pavements are still. People have vanished. The darkness sweeping like a
great broom through the streets has emptied them.
The clock in the window of a real estate office says "Two." A few windows
down another clock says "Ten minutes after two."
The newspaper man waiting for a Sheffield Avenue owl car walks along to
the next corner, listening for the sound of car wheels and looking at the
clocks. The clocks all disagree. They all hang ticking with seemingly
identical and indisputable precision.
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