I
Henry Street, drowned in November murk, was black as Tartarus and
a shade more dreadful, as a heavily built man stumbled along its
unfamiliar bumps and intermittent stretches of sidewalk, stopping now
and then to peer vainly at doors for a number. Presently he encountered
a wisp of a girl with a jacket thrown about her head and shoulders.
"Where's twenty-one?" he asked.