We walked for a moment in silence. My head was whirling with
thoughts: again I had that feeling of helplessness, of
inadequacy, which I had felt so sharply on the previous evening.
What could I do?
When we reached the corner, I said:
"Maggie, I will see you safely home."
She laughed--a hard, bitter laugh.
"Oh, I don't need any one to show me around these streets!"
"I will see you home," I said.
So we walked quickly along the street together.
"Here it is," she said finally, pointing to a dark, mean-looking,
one-story house, set in a dingy, barren areaway.
"Well, good night, Maggie," I said, "and good luck to you."
"Good night," she said faintly.
When I had walked to the corner, I stopped and looked back. She
was standing stock-still just where I had left her--a figure I
shall never forget.
I have hesitated about telling of a further strange thing that
happened to me that night--but have decided at last to put it in.
I did not accept Mr. Vedder's invitation: I could not; but I
returned to the room in the tenement where I had spent the
previous night with Bill Hahn the Socialist. It was a small,
dark, noisy room, but I was so weary that I fell almost
immediately into a heavy sleep. An hour or more later I don't
know how long indeed--I was suddenly awakened and found myself
sitting bolt upright in bed.
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