" His eyes narrowed a
little. "Do you always get that angle?"
"Yes."
"There isn't a woman cartoonist in New York who does that
human stuff. Did you know that?"
"Yes."
"Want a job?"
"N-no."
His knowing eye missed no detail of the suit, the hat, the
gloves, the shoes.
"What's your salary now?"
"Ten thousand."
"Satisfied?"
"No."
"You've hit the heart of that parade. I don't know whether
you could do that every day, or not. But if you struck
twelve half the time, it would be enough. When you want a
job, come back."
"Thanks," said Fanny quietly. And held out her hand.
She returned in the subway. It was a Bronx train, full of
sagging faces, lusterless eyes, grizzled beards; of heavy,
black-eyed girls in soiled white shoes; of stoop-shouldered
men, poring over newspapers in Hebrew script; of smells and
sounds and glaring light.
And though to-morrow would bring its reaction, and common
sense would have her again in its cold grip, she was radiant
to-night and glowing with the exaltation that comes with
creation.
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