I asked to see it, and he yielded
reluctantly
"You can take it for granted that your office is a more imposing
one than mine," he jested
"Ah, but there was a time when all my office amounted to was an
old desk. So there will be a time when yours will occupy a
splendid building on Wall Street."
"That's far more than I aspire to. All I want is to make a modest
living, so that my daughters should not have to go to work. They
don't work in a shop, of course. One is a stenographer in a fine
office and the other a school-teacher. But what difference does it
make?"
His office proved to be the hall bedroom of an apartment occupied
by the family of a cantor named Wolpert. We first entered the
dining-room, a door connecting it with Tevkin's "office" being
wide open. It was late and the gas-light was burning. Seated at a
large oval table, covered with a white oil-cloth, was Wolpert and
two other men, all the three of them with full beards and with the
stamp of intellectual life on their faces
"There are some queer people in the world who will still read my
poetry," Tevkin said to them, by way of introducing me.
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