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It was the story of Cymon and Iphigenia over again. Love improved even his powers of conversation, for when Belcovitch held forth at length Shosshi came in several times with "So?" and sometimes in the right place. Mr. Belcovitch loved his own voice and listened to it, the arrested press-iron in his hand.
The measure that had been dealt to him he did but deal to others. He saw no reason why immigrant paupers should not live on a crown a week while he taught them how to handle a press-iron or work a sewing machine. They were much better off than in Poland.
Even Belcovitch, bent over his press-iron, sometimes omitted to rebuke Fanny's badinage. The course of true love seemed to run straight to the Canopy Fanny had already worked the bridegroom's praying shawl when suddenly a storm broke. At first the cloud was no bigger than a man's hand in fact, it was a man's hand. Elias espied it groping for Fanny's in the dim space between the two machines.
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