Always, nowadays, somebody had a washing out on the line, the odour of garlic was continuously in the air, and there were noisy children under foot in the halls.

The families she and her mother had known were all gone; and Kitty was perhaps the oldest inhabitant in the block.
The living-room windows faced Eightieth Street; bedrooms, dining room, and kitchen looked out upon the court.

From the latter windows one could step out upon the fire-escape platform, which ran round the three sides of the court.
Among the present tenants she knew but one, an old man by the name of Gregory, who lived opposite.

The acquaintance had never ripened into friendship; but sometimes Kitty would borrow an egg and he would borrow some sugar.

In the summertime, when the windows were open at night, she had frequently heard the music of a violin swimming across the court.
Polish, Russian, and Hungarian music, always speaking with a tragic note; nothing she had ever heard in concerts.