She was glad to join in the stream of hurrying homeward workers that was now welling out of a thousand places of employment, and to imitate their driven, preoccupied haste. He had promised her some books, for she had voiced her hunger for stories. It mattered not whether she flunked the year as she would soon be gone. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. It was then, I am sure, empty. He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe.
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