regular red brick fronts which owned windows cleaner than most of its neighbors. Nice, old-fashioned curtains, stiffly starched, showed their white patterns. It seemed a precise and prim abode, not over-populated.
During the minutes I watched, men, women and children went in and out of the doors on each side,—practical looking men, who might be mechanics engaged in car repairs at a garage around the corner; in ways which I've mentioned, the women proved they were frugal housewives; the play of the children added to the decent domesticity of the street.
There was absolutely nothing sinster in sight and nothing and nobody menacing like the dyke-keeper in Klangenberg's delicatessen.
No one went in or out of Number 120; and I imagined it the abode of some aging, female relative of Doris; an aunt possibly, who might have been her guardian in some country town during Doris's childhood and who now had moved to the city and who probably took support from the proceeds of Janvier's plates but had nothing more to do with them.
When noon came, and Doris had not appeared, I realized that she must be waiting me within; and I went up and rang the bell.
