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The early November street was dark though night had ended,
but the wind, to the grocer's surprise, already clawed. It flung
his apron into his face as he bent for the two milk cases
at the curb. Morris Bober dragged the heavy boxes to thc
door, panting. A large brown bag of hard rolls stood in the
doorway along with the sour-faced, gray-haired Poilisheh
huddled there, who wanted one.
"What's the matter so late?"
"Ten after six," said the grocer.
"Is cold," she complained.
Turning the key in the lock he let her in. Usually he
lugged in the milk and lit the gas radiators, but the Polish
woman was impatient. Morris poured the bag of rolls into a
wire basket on the counter and found an unseeded one for
her. Slicing it in halves, he wrapped it in white store paper.
She tucked the roll into her cord market bag and left three
pennies on the counter. He rang up the sale on an old noisy
cash register, smoothed and put away the bag the rolls had
come in, finished pulling in the milk, and s . . .
