At last the train sheered away from the broad Hudson and entered the
environs of New York. Carley sat perfectly still, to all outward appearances
a calm, superbly-poised New York woman returning home, but inwardly
raging with contending tides. In her own sight she was a disgraceful
failure, a prodigal sneaking back to the ease and protection of loyal
friends who did not know her truly. Every familiar landmark in the approach
to the city gave her a thrill, yet a vague unsatisfied something lingered
after each sensation.
Then the train with rush and roar crossed the Harlem River to enter New
York City. As one waking from a dream Carley saw the blocks and squares of
gray apartment houses and red buildings, the miles of roofs and chimneys,
the long hot glaring streets full of playing children and cars. Then above
the roar of the train sounded the high notes of a hurdy-gurdy. Indeed she
was home. Next to startle her was the dark tunnel, and then the slowing of
the train to a stop. As she walked behind a porter up the long incline
toward the station gate her legs seemed to be dead.
In the circle of expectant faces beyond the gate she saw her aunt's, eager
and agitated, then the handsome pale face of Eleanor Harmon, and beside her
the sweet thin one of Beatrice Lovell.
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