They were
amazingly well shod. Their white gloves were white. (A
fact remarkable to any soot-haunted Chicagoan.) Their
coloring rivaled the rose leaf. And nobody's nose was red.
"Goodness knows I've never pretended to be a beauty," Fanny
said that evening, in conversation with Ella Monahan. "But
I've always thought I had my good points. By the time I'd
reached Forty-second street I wouldn't have given two cents
for my chances of winning a cave man on a desert island."
She made up her mind that she would go back to the hotel,
get a thick coat, and ride outside one of those fascinating
Fifth avenue 'buses. It struck her as an ideal way to see
this amazing street. She was back at her hotel in ten
minutes. Ella had not yet come in. Their rooms were on the
tenth floor. Fanny got her coat, peered at her own
reflection in the mirror, sighed, shook her head, and was
off down the hall toward the elevators. The great hall
window looked toward Fifth avenue, but between it and the
avenue rose a yellow-brick building that housed tier on tier
of manufacturing lofts.
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