Miss Honey, urban and
_blase_, balanced herself with dignity upon her roller-skates and
watched with patronizing interest the mysterious jumping of young
persons with whom she was unacquainted through complicated diagrams
chalked on the pavement.
The General sucked a clothespin meditatively: his eyes were fixed on
something beyond his immediate surroundings. Occasionally a
ravishing smile swept up from the dimples at his mouth to the
yellow rings beneath his cap frill; he flapped his hands, emitting
soft, vague sounds. At such times a wake of admiration bubbled
behind him. Delia, who propelled his carriage, which resembled a
victoria except for the rearward position of its motor power, pursed
her lips consciously and affected not to hear the enraptured
comments of the women who passed them.
To the left the trees, set in a smooth green carpet, threw out tiny,
polished, early May leaves; graceful, white-coated children dotted
the long park. Beyond them the broad blue river twinkled in the sun,
the tugs and barges glided down, the yachts strained their white
sails against the purple bluffs of the Palisades. To the right
towered the long, unbroken rows of brick and stone: story on story
of shining windows, draped and muffled in silk and lace; flight
after flight of clean granite steps; polite, impersonal, hostile as
the monuments in a graveyard.
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