not want. This look upon women's faces now gave him an indefinite unhappiness; he thought of Mrs. Markyn when he saw it. A man almost as old as Beman stopped and bought a paper. Was he, Peewee wondered, a grandfather? Beman, if Mrs. Markyn had had children, would have been a great-grandfather. What was Beman doing now? What was Walter Markyn doing, now that he had found out that Peewee was not his son?
When he had been on the streets before, he had found happiness in watching for the unexpected things that happened. People had poured past as if they had emerged out of blank space and disappeared into blank space again, and he had been satisfied merely to speculate upon what kind of people they were. He found something almost painful now in that kind of speculation. He felt vaguely that the people or the streets had changed. It did not occur to him that the change was in himself; that he had been before without origin and without attachment, an atom floating in the gutters, but that now, for several months, he had been thinking
