faces, often grotesque, sometimes repulsive, always mobile.
She wandered down South Clark street, flaring with purple-
white arc-lights, and looked in at its windows that
displayed a pawnbroker's glittering wares, or, just next
door, a flat-topped stove over which a white-capped magician
whose face smacked of the galley, performed deft tricks with
a pancake turner. "Southern chicken dinner," a lying sign
read, "with waffles and real maple syrup, 35@." Past these
windows promenaded the Clark street women, hard-eyed, high-
heeled, aigretted; on the street corners loafed the Clark
street men, blue-shaven, wearing checked suits, soiled
faun-topped shoes, and diamond scarf pins. And even as she
watched them, fascinated, they vanished. Clark street
changed overnight, and became a business thoroughfare, lined
with stately office buildings, boasting marble and gold-leaf
banks, filled with hurrying clerks, stenographers, and
prosperous bond salesmen. It was like a sporting man who,
thriving in middle age, endeavors to live down his shady
past.

Fanny discovered Cottage Grove avenue, and Halsted street,
and Jefferson, and South State, where she should never have
walked. There is an ugliness about Chicago's ugly streets
that, for sheer, naked brutality, is equaled nowhere in the
world. London has its foul streets, smoke-blackened,
sinister. But they are ugly as crime is ugly--and as
fascinating. It is like the ugliness of an old hag who has
lived a life, and who could tell you strange tales, if she
would. Walking through them you think of Fagin, of Children
of the Ghetto, of Tales of Mean Streets. Naples is