The apartment house suited Fanny and swallowed
her.
The city was so big, now, that people disappeared into it unnoticed,
and the disappearance of Fanny and her nephew was not exceptional.
People no longer knew their neighbours as a matter of course; one
lived for years next door to strangers--that sharpest of all the
changes since the old days--and a friend would lose sight of a friend
for a year, and not know it.
One May day George thought he had a glimpse of Lucy. He was not
certain, but he was sufficiently disturbed, in spite of his
uncertainty. A promotion in his work now frequently took him out of
town for a week, or longer, and it was upon his return from one of
these absences that he had the strange experience. He had walked home
from the station, and as he turned the corner which brought him in
sight of the apartment house entrance, though two blocks distant from
it, he saw a charming little figure come out, get into a shiny
landaulet automobile, and drive away. Even at that distance no one
could have any doubt that the little figure was charming; and the
height, the quickness and decision of motion, even the swift gesture
of a white glove toward the chauffeur--all were characteristic of
Lucy.
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