Possibly, too, this woman, whose outside garments had contrasted so strangely with her more sumptuous underwear, might have been an inmate of the same house in which his wife was living--some one, perhaps, in whom his wife had had confidence.
Perhaps--no! That was impossible.

Whatever the depths of suffering into which his wife had fallen, she had not yet reached the pit--of that he was convinced.

If he were mistaken--at the thought his fingers tightened, and his heavy eyebrows and thin, drawn lips became two parallel straight lines--then he would know exactly what to do.
These convictions filled his mind when, having bid good-by to Kitty--who knew nothing of his interview with the priest--he buttoned his mackintosh close up to his throat, tucked his blackthorn stick under his arm, and, pressing his hat well on his head, bent his steps toward the East Side.

A light rain was falling and most of the passers-by were carrying umbrellas.

Overhead thundered the trains of the Elevated--a continuous line of lights flashing through the clouds of mist.
Underneath stretched Third Avenue, its perspective dimmed in a slowly gathering fog.
As he tramped on, the brim of his soft hat shadowing his brow, he scanned without ceasing the faces of those he passed: the men with collars turned up, the women under the umbrellas--especially those with small feet.