THE VOICE OF THE CITY
“It isn’t broken,” was his diagnosis; “but you have a bruise there that looks like you’d fallen off the Flatiron twice.”
“That’s all right,” said the Kid. “Let’s have your clothesbrush, please.”
The bride waited in the rosy glow of the pink lamp shade. The miracles were not all passed away. By breathing a desire for some slight thing—a flower, a pomegranate, a—oh, yes, a peach—she could send forth her man into the night, into the world which could not withstand him, and he would do her bidding.
And now he stood by her chair and laid the peach in her hand.
“Naughty boy!” she said, fondly. “Did I say a peach? I think I would much rather have had an orange.”
Blest be the bride.
[48]
