a home where the plaster didn't crumble nor the floors creak, had even less faith in the Doctor's ability to begin over again.
Perry glanced through the open door of the tiny waiting room on the left as he hung up his cap and, finding it empty and the further door ajar, knew that his father was out. He went on up the stairs, which complained at almost every footfall, and stole noiselessly down the narrow hall to his own room. His mother's door was closed and this was the hour when, on Sundays, she enjoyed what she termed "forty winks." Perry's room was small and lighted by three narrow windows set close together. While they admitted light they afforded but little view, for beyond the shallow back-yard loomed the side wall of a five-storied brick building which fronted on G Street. Directly on a level with Perry's windows was Curry's Glove factory, occupying the second floor of the building. Below was a bakery. Above were offices; a dentist's, a lawyer's, and several that were empty or changed tenants so frequently that Perry couldn't keep track of them. In winter the light that came through the three windows was faint and brief, but at other seasons the sunlight managed somehow to find its way there. This afternoon a golden ray still lingered
on the table, falling athwart the strapped pile of
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