Tenth Street was packed from end to end by a silent mob.

As a sponge cleans a slate, so exhilaration had been wiped off their souls.

On the porch of Ford's Theatre some gaudy posters advertised Tom Taylor's comedy, Our American Cousin, and the steps were littered with paper and orange peel and torn fragments of women's clothes, for the exit of the audience had been hasty.

Lights still blazed in the building, for there was nobody to put them out.

In front on the side-walk was a cordon of soldiers.
Stanton elbowed his way through the throng to the little house, Mr.
Peterson's, across the street.