She was in the middle thirties, and faintly stout, but she carried her surplus flesh sensuously as some women can.
Her face, above a spotted dress of dark blue crepe-de-chine, contained no facet or gleam of beauty but there was an immediately perceptible vitality about her as if the nerves of her body were continually smouldering.
She smiled slowly and walking through her husband as if he were a ghost shook hands with Tom, looking him flush in the eye.
Then she wet her lips and without turning around spoke to her husband in a soft, coarse voice:
"Get some chairs, why don't you, so somebody can sit down."
"Oh, sure," agreed Wilson hurriedly and went toward the little office, mingling immediately with the cement color of the walls. A white ashen dust veiled his dark suit and his pale hair as it veiled everything in the vicinity-except his wife, who moved close to Tom.
"I want to see you," said Tom intently. "Get on the next train."
"All right."
"I'll meet you by the news-stand on the lower level."
She nodded and moved away from him just as George Wilson emerged with two chairs from his office door.