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The Old Woman

           

           ‘Imustkissthehand,’saidshe,‘thathasworkedinthisfinefactoryforadozenyear!’Andsheliftedit,thoughhewouldhavepreventedher,andputittoherlips.Whatharmony,besidesherageandhersimplicity,surroundedher,hedidnotknow,buteveninthisfantasticactiontherewasasomethingneitheroutoftimenorplace:asomethingwhichitseemedasifnobodyelsecouldhavemadeasserious,ordonewithsuchanaturalandtouchingair.

           Hehadbeenathisloomfullhalfanhour,thinkingaboutthisoldwoman,when,havingoccasiontomoveroundtheloomforitsadjustment,heglancedthroughawindowwhichwasinhiscorner,andsawherstilllookingupatthepileofbuilding,lostinadmiration.Heedlessofthesmokeandmudandwet,andofhertwolongjourneys,shewasgazingatit,asiftheheavythrumthatissuedfromitsmanystorieswereproudmusictoher.

           Shewasgonebyandby,andthedaywentafterher,andthelightssprungupagain,andtheExpresswhirledinfullsightoftheFairyPalaceoverthearchesnear:littlefeltamidthejarringofthemachinery,andscarcelyheardaboveitscrashandrattle.Longbeforethenhisthoughtshadgonebacktothedrearyroomabovethelittleshop,andtotheshamefulfigureheavyonthebed,butheavieronhisheart.

           Machineryslackened;throbbingfeeblylikeafaintingpulse;stopped.Thebellagain;theglareoflightandheatdispelled;thefactories,loomingheavyintheblackwetnighttheirtallchimneysrisingupintotheairlikecompetingTowersofBabel.

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