So the traffic policemen led harried lives; they themselves were killed, of course, with a certain periodicity, but their main trouble was that they could not make the citizens realize that it was actually and mortally perilous to go about their city.

It was strange, for there were probably no citizens of any length of residence who had not personally known either some one who had been killed or injured in an accident, or some one who had accidentally killed or injured others.
And yet, perhaps it was not strange, seeing the sharp preoccupation of the faces--the people had something on their minds; they could not stop to bother about dirt and danger.
Mary Vertrees was not often down-town; she had never seen an accident until this afternoon.

She had come upon errands for her mother connected with a timorous refurbishment; and as she did these, in and out of the department stores, she had an insistent consciousness of the Sheridan Building.

From the street, anywhere, it was almost always in sight, like some monstrous geometrical shadow, murk-colored and rising limitlessly into the swimming heights of the smoke-mist.

It was gaunt and grimy and repellent; it had nothing but strength and size--but in that consciousness of Mary's the great structure may have partaken of beauty.
Sheridan had made some of the things he said emphatic enough to remain with her.