He made enough to exist upon by touting for a cigar-firm in the evenings.

In the streets he walked with tight-pursed lips, dreaming no one knew what.
And yet there were times when his tight-pursed lips unclenched themselves and he drew in great breaths even of Ghetto air with the huge contentment of one who has known suffocation.

"One can breathe here," he seemed to be saying.

The atmosphere, untainted by spies, venal officials, and jeering soldiery, seemed fresh and sweet.

Here the ground was stable, not mined in all directions; no arbitrary ukase--veritable sword of Damocles--hung over the head and darkened the sunshine.