From
the region of cheap theatres he passed through streets in which saloons
stood massed, one beside another, each with its wide garish doorway and
its dimly lighted "Ladies' Entrance," and into a region of neat little
stores where women with baskets upon their arms stood by the counters and
Sam was reminded of Saturday nights in Caxton.
The two women, Edith and Janet Eberly, met through Jack Prince, to one of
whom Sam had sent the roses at the hands of the other, and from whom he
had borrowed the six thousand dollars when he was new in the city, had
been in Chicago for five years when Sam came to know them. For all of the
five years they had lived in a two-story frame building that had been a
residence in Wabash Avenue near Thirty-ninth Street and that was now both
a residence and a grocery store. The apartment upstairs, reached by a
stairway at the side of the grocery, had in the five years, and under the
hand of Janet Eberly, become a thing of beauty, perfect in the simplicity
and completeness of its appointment.
The two women were the daughters of a farmer who had lived in one of the
middle western states facing the Mississippi River. Their grandfather had
been a noted man in the state, having been one of its first governors and
later serving it in the senate in Washington.
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