sic.

"See, mamma, nice Mr. Haas is getting us the papers. Nice evening papers
for Shila's mamma." She leaned down into the recesses of the black
grenadine, withdrawing from one of the pockets a pair of silver-rimmed
spectacles, adjusting them with some difficulty to the nodding head.
"Shila's--little mamma! Shila's mamma!"

"Aylorff, the littlest wreath for--Aylorff--_Meine Kraentze_--"

"Yes, yes."

"_Mein Mann. Mein Suehn._"

"Ssh-h-h, dearie!"

"Aylorff--_der klenste Kranz far ihm_!"

"Ssh-h-h, dearie--talk English, like Selene wants. Wait till we get on
the ship--the beautiful ship to take us back. Mamma, see out the window!
Look! That's the beautiful Forest Park, and this is the fine Hotel
Walsingham just across--see out--Selene is going to have a flat on--"

"_Sey hoben gestorben far Freiheit. Sey hoben_--"

"There, that's the papers!"

To a succession of quick knocks, she flew to the door, returning with
the folded evening editions under her arm.

"Now," she cried, unfolding and inserting the first of them into the
quivering hands, "now, a shawl over my little mamma's knees and we're
fixed!"

With a series of rapid movements, she flung open one of the
black-cashmere shawls across the bed, folding it back into a triangle.
Beside the table, bare except for the formal, unthumbed Bible, Mrs.
Horowitz rattled out her paper, her near-sighted eyes traveling back and
forth across the page.

Music from the ferned-in orchestra came in drifts, faint, not so faint.
From somewhere, then immediately from everywhere, beyond, below,
without, the fast shouts of newsboys mingling.

Suddenly and of her own volition, and with a cry that shot up through
the room, rending it like a gash, Mrs. Horowitz, who moved by inches,
sprang to her supreme height, her arms, the crooks forced out, flung up.

"My darlings--what died--for it! My darlings what died for it--my
darlings--Aylorff--my husband!" There was a wail rose up off her words,
like the smoke of incense curling, circling around her. "My darlings
what died to make free!"

"Mamma--darling--mamma--Mr. Haas! Help! Mamma! My God!"

"Aylorff--my husband--I paid with my blood to make free--my blood--my
son--my--own--" Immovable there, her arms flung up and tears so heavy
that they rolled whole from her face down to the black grenadine, she
was as sonorous as the tragic meter of an Alexandrian line; she was like
Ruth, ancestress of heroes and progenitor of kings. "My