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Updated: June 1, 2025
I caught glimpses of her on the street and in her carriage; memory marks the spots by a glow of light; they are my holy places. I saw her open her purse for a blind man begging on a church step. I watched her turn and speak politely to a ragged newsgirl.
There is a newsgirl who minds a stand here at the corner of Rose and Frankfort Streets who is charming as a type of 'Arriet. She always wears an enormous hat. A fine thing for a 'Arriet to do, I think. Sometimes the stand is minded by her mother. A fine thing for an old body to do, I think. Phil May would have delighted in Frankfort Street. So would Rembrandt.
Sometimes, suddenly startled by an intense realization of the contrast between her past and her present life, she would mentally inquire: "Can this be really I, myself, and not another? I, the little houseless wanderer through the streets and alleys of New York? I, the little newsgirl in boy's clothes?
For her to wake up to it only now and run bruiting the stale information would be a ridiculous nuisance a newsgirl howling yesterday's extra to to-day's busy crowd. Besides, she had in her time known how uninteresting and unwelcome is the celebrant of one's own misfortunes. Husbands and wives who tell of their bad luck are entertaining only so long as they are spicy and sportsmanlike.
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