I make heroes out of dust.
Isn't it worth my price ?" A figure was loitering the other side of the street when she reached home.

She thought she somehow recognized it, and crossed over.

It was McKean, smoking his everlasting pipe.

Success having demanded some such change, he had migrated to "The Albany," and she had not seen him for some time.

He had come to have a last look at the house--in case it might happen to be the last.