Penniman paid for her cup of tea, and Morris paid for
his oyster stew, and they went out together into the dimly-lighted
wilderness of the Seventh Avenue. The dusk had closed in completely
and the street lamps were separated by wide intervals of a pavement
in which cavities and fissures played a disproportionate part. An
omnibus, emblazoned with strange pictures, went tumbling over the
dislocated cobble-stones.
"How will you go home?" Morris asked, following this vehicle with an
interested eye. Mrs. Penniman had taken his arm.
She hesitated a moment. "I think this manner would be pleasant," she
said; and she continued to let him feel the value of his support.
So he walked with her through the devious ways of the west side of
the town, and through the bustle of gathering nightfall in populous
streets, to the quiet precinct of Washington Square. They lingered a
moment at the foot of Dr. Sloper's white marble steps, above which a
spotless white door, adorned with a glittering silver plate, seemed
to figure, for Morris, the closed portal of happiness; and then Mrs.
Penniman's companion rested a melancholy eye upon a lighted window in
the upper part of the house.
"That is my room--my dear little room!" Mrs. Penniman remarked.
Morris started. "Then I needn't come walking round the Square to
gaze at it."
"That's as you please. But Catherine's is behind; two noble windows
on the second floor.
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