at machines, and at hand-work, but not as women are
accustomed to sew, with leisurely stitches, stopping to pat
a seam here, to run a calculating eye along hem or ruffle.
It was a dreadful, mechanical motion, that sewing, a
machine-like, relentless motion, with no waste in it, no
pause. Fanny's mind leaped back to Winnebago, with its
pleasant porches on which leisurely women sat stitching
peacefully at a fine seam.

What was it she had said to Udell? "Can't you speed up the
workroom? It's worth it."

Fanny turned abruptly from the window as the door of the
bronze and mirrored lift opened for her. She walked over to
Fifth avenue again and up to Forty-fifth street. Then she
scrambled up the spiral stairs of a Washington Square 'bus.
The air was crisp, clear, intoxicating. To her Chicago eyes
the buildings, the streets, the very sky looked startlingly
fresh and new-washed. As the 'bus lurched down Fifth avenue
she leaned over the railing to stare, fascinated, at the
colorful, shifting, brilliant panorama of the most amazing
street in the world. Block after block, as far as the eye
could see, the gorgeous procession moved up, moved down, and
the great, gleaming motor cars crept, and crawled, and
writhed in and out, like nothing so much as swollen angle
worms in a fishing can, Fanny thought. Her eye was caught
by one limousine that stood out, even in that crush of
magnificence. It was all black, as though scorning to
attract the eye with vulgar color, and it was lined with
white. Fanny thought it looked very much like Siegel &