One street crosses itself a time or two.

An artist once discovered a valuable possibility in this street.
Suppose a collector with a bill for paint, paper and canvas should, in traversing this route, suddenly meet himself coming back, without a cent having been paid on account!" And Kate Jordan offers this concerning Waverly Place: "Here Eleventh and Fourth streets, refusing to be separated by arithmetical arrangements, meet at an unexpected point as if to shake hands, and Waverly Place sticks its head in where some other street ought to be, for all the world like a village busybody who has to see what is happening around the corner." But what of the spirit of Greenwich?
The truth is that first and foremost Greenwich is the home of romance.

It is a sort of Make Believe Land which has never grown up, and which will never learn to be modern and prosaic.
It is full of romance.

You cannot escape it, no matter how hard you try to be practical.

You start off on some commonplace stroll enough--or you tell yourself it will be so; you are in the middle of cable car lines and hustling people and shouting truck drivers, and street cleaners and motors and newsboys, and all the component parts of a modern and seemingly very sordid city--when, lo and behold, a step to the right or left has taken you into another country entirely--I had well-nigh said another world.