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The city presented a terrible picture of devastation. “Your mother was a Gypsy. I told you that at the outset. The sky was dripping a wet, slow rain that had forced the city’s inhabitants into taxicabs and dingy cafeterias, the day wholly ruined for all except the insane schizophrenics and her. I must provide for my safety. A sarcastic smile seemed to play upon the chief-taker's lips; and abashed at his own irresolution, the lad went on. Have you ever tried to run and jump in petticoats, Mr. Will you read to me? I am tired; and the sound of your voice makes me drowsy.
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