A woman with long waist broken to the show of underwear swabbed the floor of the Bakeshop. Her arms were naked like the pole of her swab-cloth. All she was long articulated bone, swathed in moist grey. Her face, swinging above her work, smiled on Fanny. Fanny sat at a dark table in the smell of dough, seeing the long face suddenly widen bright: seeing eyes in a woman, tender through the greased shadow of sawdust floor and a counter heavy with bread. “I’ll have just a nickel’s worth of rolls.” The woman came back: she placed before Fanny fried eggs, coffee, butter and bread. “Why haven’t ye been in, of late, silly?” --_She understands!_ The understanding of the woman stopped Fanny’s words. She was not hurt by this sharp tenderness like green in the crass mass of the morning. She ate.--I must eat slow. She could not eat slowly. Something within her beyond her devoured the food. She could not say Thank you, standing to go. She could not give her nickel burning in her palm. The woman swabbed her feet. “Ye’re in the way,” she mock-scolded. Fanny was glad. Street!--Why does no thing stay as it was? So I can catch up? She breathed heavily. Her head was light, save in the very back under the coiled hair which tipped downward pulling up at her chin. She felt her stomach. Her knees were light. She felt her feet.--I could laugh! I am striped in heaviness and lightness. Laugh then! The two walls of the street fell forward: in the air above the gutter they crashed in silence together and disappeared. The City was a maze of twisting streams.... Two men passed. They were arm in arm. They were sleek and full in the black coats shaped to their bodies. Their cheeks and their eyes were sleek and full of themselves. About the round head of each there was an Aura. Thick troubled, it beat outward like an emprisoned gas. A gaseous colorless world it was about the head of each, that veered against the other, drew in, thrust out, hostile. Impenetrable two men passed, arm in arm. * * * * * ... A woman passed her. Her eyes were red spots in the soot of her face. The loose wide flesh of her feet at each step hurt. Her hands fell like the heads of slaughtered hens. Behind her, attached to the grey shawl that covered her head, a Wake like a scarf dragged dimly dark. It wavered from side to side: it was a disconsolate flutter forever behind her. A little boy crossed the street at her back: the scarf lifted, it avoided his bright eyes: it sagged down toward an ashcan, skimming the filth.... * * * * *