She
stood there, and the parade went on, endlessly, it seemed,
and she saw it through a haze. Bands. More bands.
Pennants. Floats. Women. Women. Women.
"I always cry at parades," said Fanny, to the woman who
stood next her--the woman who wanted to march, but was
scared to.
"That's all right," said the woman. "That's all right."
And she laughed, because she was crying, too. And then she
did a surprising thing. She elbowed her way to the edge of
the crowd, past the red-faced man with the cigar, out to the
street, and fell into line, and marched on up the street,
shoulders squared, head high.
Fanny glanced down at her watch. It was quarter after four.
With a little gasp she turned to work her way through the
close-packed crowd. It was an actual physical struggle,
from which she emerged disheveled, breathless, uncomfortably
warm, and minus her handkerchief, but she had gained the
comparative quiet of the side street, and she made the short
distance that lay between the Avenue and her hotel a matter
of little more than a minute.
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