When, at last, he turned into Michigan Avenue and went toward his
apartment, the late moon was just mounting the sky and a clock in one of
the sleeping houses was striking three.
CHAPTER VI
One evening, six weeks after the talk in the gathering darkness in Jackson
Park, Sue Rainey and Sam McPherson sat on the deck of a Lake Michigan
steamer watching the lights of Chicago blink out in the distance. They had
been married that afternoon in Colonel Tom's big house on the south side;
and now they sat on the deck of the boat, being carried out into darkness,
vowed to motherhood and to fatherhood, each more or less afraid of the
other. They sat in silence, looking at the blinking lights and listening
to the low voices of their fellow passengers, also sitting in the chairs
along the deck or strolling leisurely about, and to the wash of the water
along the sides of the boat, eager to break down a little reserve that the
solemnity of the marriage service had built up between them.
A picture floated in Sam's mind. He saw Sue, all in white, radiant and
wonderful, coming toward him down a broad stairway, toward him, the
newsboy of Caxton, the smuggler of game, the roisterer, the greedy
moneygetter.
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