Just when
the decay of the old dwelling began there is none to say. But New
Yorkers of middle age recall that in their childhood the Lane already
had been claimed by the slums, with the Italian influx just beginning.
One winter afternoon a number of years ago a boy stood leaning against
the iron newel post of the old house, smoking a cigarette. He was
perhaps fourteen or fifteen years of age, but he might have been either
older or younger. The city gives even to children a sophisticated look
that baffles the casual psychologist.
The children playing on the steps behind the boy were stocky, swarthy
Italians. But he was tall and loosely built, with dark red hair and
hard blue eyes. He was thin and raw boned. Even his smartly cut
clothes could not hide his extreme awkwardness of body, his big loose
joints, his flat chest and protruding shoulder blades. His face, too,
could not have been an Italian product. The cheek bones were high, the
cheeks slightly hollowed, the nose and lips were rough hewn. The suave
lines of the three little Latins behind him were entirely alien to this
boy's face.
It was warm and thawing so that the dead horse across the street, with
the hugely swollen body, threw off an offensive odor.
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