"Poor little kids! Not much like the children of the masters, eh?
with their lawns and playgrounds, their beaches and flowery fields, their gardens and fine schools, their dogs, ponies, autos and all the rest! Some difference, all right--and it takes a thousand of _these_, yes, ten thousand, to keep one of _those_.
And--and _she_ was one of the rich and dainty children! Her beauty, health and grace were bought at the price of ten thousand other children's health, and joy and lives! Ah, God, what a price! What a cruel, awful, barbarous price to pay!" Saddened and pensive, he passed on, still thinking of the woman he could not banish from his mind, despite his bitterness against her class.
So he walked on and on, now through better streets and now through worse, up and down the city.
Here and there, detonations and red fire marked the impatience of some demonstrator who could not wait till midnight to show his ardent patriotism and his public spirit by risking life and property.

The saloons were all doing a land-office business, with the holiday impending and the thermometer at 97.

Now and then, slattern women, in foul clothes and with huge, gelatinous breasts, could be seen rushing the growler, at the "family entrance" of some low dive.

Even little girls bore tin pails, for the evening's "scuttle o' suds" to be consumed on roof, or in back yard of stinking tenement, or on some fire-escape.
The city, in fine, was relaxing from its toil; and, as the workers for the most part knew no other way, nor could afford any, they were trying to snatch some brief moment of respite from the Hell of their slavery, by recourse to rough ribaldry and alcohol.
Nine o'clock had just struck from the church-spires which mocked the slums with their appeal to an impassive Heaven, when, passing a foul and narrow alley that led down to the Genesee River, Gabriel saw a woman sitting on a doorstep, weeping bitterly.
This woman--hardly more than a girl--was holding a little bundle in one hand.

The other covered her face.