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The distance between the
hurrying life she looked out on through her grimy window, and that which
she had been wont to contemplate through Florence McCrea's exquisitely
leaded casements, was simply planetary.
And yet, queerly enough, in terms of literal lineal measurement, the
distance between the windows themselves, was less than a thousand yards.
Less than ten minutes' walking from the mouth of the little tunnel
alongside the delicatessen shop, would take her back to her husband's
door. She had, in her flight out into the new world, doubled back on her
trail. And, such is the enormous social and spiritual distance between
North Clark Street and The Drive, she was as safely hidden here, as
completely out of the orbit of any of her friends, or even of her
friends' servants, as she could have been in New York or in San
Francisco.
Having to come away furtively like this was a terrible countermine
beneath her courage. If only she could have had a flourish of defiant
trumpets to speed her on her way! But, done like that, the thing would
have hurt Rodney too intolerably.


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