He thought he heard a scraping sound as he turned the handle. She trailed him to his apartment and a black door that read 727 in solemn gold-tone lettering. The man looked closely at Anna as she crossed the footway, and as he held her skirt from the wheel he pressed something into her hand. He found his youngest daughter intrusive in his thoughts all through the morning, and still more so in the afternoon. Here, where every element of her surroundings was tawdry and commonplace, and before this young man of vulgar origin and appearance, it was striking. “Sold again,” she remarked. And sometimes he overflowed with a peculiarly malignant wit that played, with devastating effect, upon any topics that had the courage to face it.
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