I took the usual way home. He would ask her to come to dinner with him in some little Italian or semiBohemian restaurant in the district toward Soho, or in one of the more stylish and magnificent establishments about Piccadilly Circus, and for the most part she did not care to refuse. “I believe it is. America, the land of rosy apples and snowstorms, beckoned, and she wanted to fly thitherward. The gale had become a hurricane: that hurricane was the most terrible that ever laid waste our city. The honey on his tongue turned to ashes. His job as a painter was wearing him down acutely as he aged. “Now you must go,” she said firmly.
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