My words seemed to have an unusual effect on her. I could see that she's the terrible goofily romantic kind that believe everything the auctioner says. You know, that the Oriental rugs really came from the harem of the caliphate, that the antique bed really was the one in which DuBarry slept, that the Elizabethan tablecloth really was an Elizabethan tablecloth.
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Chicago is a stranger. It's fog-hidden buildings and streets are strangers and its crowds criss-crossing everywhere are worse than strangers. But now she has Des Moines under her arm. Des Moines is a companion that will make the fog seem less lonely. Later she will sit down in a hotel room and read of what has happened in Des Moines buildings and Des Moines streets. These will seem like real happenings, whereas the happenings Chicago papers print seem like unrealities.