. "The doctor told me I had a false alarm, there was nothing to
it. Wouldn't that jar you? Boston's a slow burg, and there's no use of my
staying here now. I'm going to New York, and maybe I'll come back when
I've had a look at the great white way. I've got the coin, and I gave him
the mit to-night. If you haven't anything better to do, drop in at the
Bagatelle and give Walters my love, and tell them not to worry at home.
There's no use trying to trail me. Your affectionate sister Lise."

Janet thrust the letter in her pocket. Then she walked rapidly westward
until she came to the liver-coloured facade of the City Hall, opposite
the Common. Pushing through the crowd of operatives lingering on the
pavement in front of it, she entered the building....

THE DWELLING-PLACE OF LIGHT

By WINSTON CHURCHILL
VOLUME 3.

CHAPTER XV

Occasionally the art of narrative may be improved by borrowing the method
of the movies. Another night has passed, and we are called upon to
imagine the watery sunlight of a mild winter afternoon filtering through
bare trees on the heads of a multitude. A large portion of Hampton Common
is black with the people of sixteen nationalities who have gathered
there, trampling down the snow, to listen wistfully and eagerly to a new
doctrine of salvation. In the centre of this throng on the
bandstand--reminiscent of concerts on sultry, summer nights--are the
itinerant apostles of the cult called Syndicalism, exhorting by turns in
divers tongues. Antonelli had spoken, and many others, when Janet,
impelled by a craving not to be denied, had managed to push her way
little by little from the outskirts of the crowd until now she stood
almost beneath the orator who poured forth passionate words in a language
she recognized as Italian. Her curiosity was aroused, she was unable to
classify this tall man whose long and narrow face was accentuated by a
pointed brown beard, whose lips gleamed red as he spoke, whose slim hands
were eloquent. The artist as propagandist--the unsuccessful artist with
more facility than will. The nose was classic, and wanted strength; the
restless eyes that at times seemed fixed on her were smouldering windows
of a burning house: the fire that stirred her was also consuming him.
Though he could have been little more than five and thirty, his hair was
thinned and greying at the temples. And somehow emblematic of this
physiognomy and physique, summing it up and expressing it in