Straight ahead the hut of the Adams Street L station in midair was a
Venetian bridge with the black canal of asphalt flowing sluggishly
beneath. The reflection of cafeteria and cigar-shop windows on either
side were slender shafts of light along the canal. An enchanting sight.
Dirk thought suddenly that Dallas was a good deal like that—like
Chicago. A mixture of grandeur and cheapness; of tawdriness and
magnificence; of splendour and ugliness.
“Nice,” said Dallas. A long breath. She was a part of all this.
“Yes.” He felt an outsider. “Want a sandwich? Are you hungry?”
“I’m starved.”
They had sandwiches and coffee at an all-night one-arm lunch room
because Dallas said her face was too dirty for a restaurant and she
didn’t want to bother to wash it. She was more than ordinarily
companionable that night; a little tired; less buoyant and independent
than usual. This gave her a little air of helplessness—of fatigue—that
aroused all his tenderness. Her smile gave him a warm rush of pure
happiness—until he saw her smile in exactly the same way at the pimply
young man who lorded it over the shining nickel coffee container, as she
told him that his coffee was grand.