He trembled, not from any superstitious dread, but from an undefined sense of approaching danger. He did not like it, he said, with a significant look, to be reminded of either his books or his dinners after he had done with them. "What is it?" "The night," she answered. The manager stared at the empty doorway for a space, shrugged, and returned to his ledgers. There were doorways to peer into, dim cluttered holes with shadowy forms moving about, potters and rug-weavers. She enjoyed preparing the evening meals, the smells of potatoes roasting in the oven, the stink of onions in the pan, the crackle of chicken frying.
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