Next were sights she’d once taken for granted but now looked strange-the telegraph poles, invariably listing the gaslights on various corners the numerous carriages, parked upon or next to sidewalks the ubiquitous shabbiness. The smell of the city hit her first and most viscerally: a mixture of earth, sweat, horse dung, coal smoke, urine, leather, fried meat, and the ammoniac tang of lye. The sights, noises, and odors unexpectedly brought back a thousand memories of her childhood, memories so distant that she scarcely knew she still retained them. On this particular chilly morning, Longacre and the avenues and streets leading from it were quiet save for the occasional pedestrian or horse cart passing by, and nobody paid much attention to the young woman with short dark hair, dressed in a purple gown of an unusual cut and fabric, who stepped out from an alleyway and looked around, squinting and wrinkling her nose.Ĭonstance Greene paused, letting the initial flood of sensations sink in, careful not to betray any sign of the upswell of emotions that threatened to overwhelm her. It was the center of the carriage trade, an outlying district of the rapidly growing city where horses were stabled and buggy makers toiled. The thoroughfare was made of dirt, its potholed surface packed so hard from an infinitude of horses and wagons it seemed as impermeable as cement, except in the muddy areas surrounding the grooves of the cable car tracks and the hitching posts, sunk in manure. The morning sun, filtered through a veil of dust and smoke, fell feebly upon the intersection where Broadway crossed Seventh Avenue. Recommendations from the African Diaspora.Workman Publishing Arrow Icon Arrow icon.Little, Brown Books for Young Readers Arrow Icon Arrow icon.Little, Brown and Company Arrow Icon Arrow icon.Hachette Nashville Arrow Icon Arrow icon.Grand Central Publishing Arrow Icon Arrow icon.
0 kommentar(er)
