But the dinginess
depressed her. Smoke was in the atmosphere, like a heavy fog. Soot
lay on the window-sills, and mingled with street dust to form little
black whirlpools in the wind. Even the white river steamers,
guiding their heavy laden coal barges with the current, were gray
with soft coal smoke. The foam of the river falling in broken
cataracts from their stern wheels was oddly white in contrast.
Everywhere she began to see her own name. "Cardew" was on the ore
hopper cars that were moving slowly along a railroad spur. One of
the steamers bore "Anthony Cardew" in tall black letters on its side.
There was a narrow street called "Cardew Way."
Aunt Elinor lived on Cardew Way. She wondered if Aunt Elinor found
that curious, as she did. Did she resent these ever-present
reminders of her lost family? Did she have any bitterness because
the very grayness of her skies was making her hard old father richer
and more powerful?
Yet there was comfort, stability and a certain dignity about Aunt
Elinor's house when she reached it. It stood in the district, but
not of it, withdrawn from the street in a small open space which
gave indication of being a flower garden in summer.
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