On the mantel was a litter of medicine
bottles and theatre programs, powder boxes, gloves and slippers,
packages of gum and of cigarettes, and packs of cards, as well as more
ornamental matters: china statuettes and glass cologne bottles, a
palm-leaf fan with roses painted on it, a pincushion of redwood bark,
and a plush rolling-pin with brass screws in it, hung by satin ribbons.
Over all lay a thick coat of dust.
Emeline took Julia in her lap, and sat down in one of the patent
rockers. She remained for a long time staring out of the front window.
George's words burned angrily in her memory--she felt sick of life.
A spring twilight was closing down upon O'Farrell Street. In the row of
houses opposite Emeline could see slits of gaslight behind lowered
shades, and could look straight into the second floor of the
establishment that flourished behind a large sign bearing the words,
"O'Connor, Modes." This row of bay-windowed houses had been occupied as
homes by very good families when the Pages first came to O'Farrell
Street, but six years had seen great changes in the block. A grocery and
bar now occupied the corner, facing the saloon above which the Pages
lived, and the respectable middle-class families had moved away, one by
one, giving place to all sorts of business enterprises.
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