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And, if the fact was there, why bother to keep up a
contradictory fiction. So Rose asked for a receipt.
The matter of the trunk was easily disposed of. Rose had a check for it.
It was at the Polk Street Station. There was a cigar and news stand two
blocks down, the landlady said, where an expressman had his
headquarters. There was a blue sign out in front: "Schulz Express"; Rose
couldn't miss it.
The landlady went away to write out a receipt. Rose closed the door
after her and locked it.
It was a purely symbolistic act. She wasn't going to change her clothes
or anything, and she didn't particularly want to keep anybody out. But,
in a sense in which it had never quite been true before, this was her
room, a room where any one lacking her specific invitation to enter,
would be an intruder--a condition that had not obtained either in her
mother's house or in Rodney's.
She smiled widely over the absurdity of indulging in a pleasurable
feeling of possession in a squalid little cubby-hole like this.


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