It was his dream, his passion; at every instant he seemed to feel the generous solid weight of the crude fat metal in his palms.

The glint of it was constantly in his eyes; the jangle of it sang forever in his ears as the jangling of cymbals.
"Who is it?
Who is it ?" exclaimed Zerkow, as he heard Maria's footsteps in the outer room.

His voice was faint, husky, reduced almost to a whisper by his prolonged habit of street crying.
"Oh, it's you again, is it ?" he added, peering through the gloom of the shop.

"Let's see; you've been here before, ain't you?
You're the Mexican woman from Polk Street.

Macapa's your name, hey ?" Maria nodded.