Neal was heavy-jowled as a prize-fighter, but if ever he had
followed the ring his fighting days were over now. Good feeding had done
for him; he breathed heavily in the fetid atmosphere of the car. He was
almost squeezing the breath out of the little man with a heavy red
mustache who stood just behind him. The red mustache made the little
man's face seem out of proportion; there was not enough of chin to make
a proper balance.
At Spring Street two women struggled to get off.
"Let 'em off!" came the familiar admonition of the guard.
Those about the women made every effort to give them room, but at the
best they had a hard fight to make their way out. Both the women were
modishly dressed, and their complexions were correctly made. There was,
too, that hardness about the mouths of both of them that Mr. Neal found
in the faces of most of the women he saw--a hardness that even the
stress of their effort to get out of the car could not disturb. When
they finally got out, others crowded in.
Mr. Neal was happy, and he looked about him to find other happy faces.
But they were nowhere to be seen; the faces were stolid, or indifferent,
or intent, or vacuous. None of them were glad. If their mouths would
only turn up at the corners! Well, it was the same old story.
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