 a
moment later, from the apartment.

The Worm sat on a corner of the desk and looked after him, thought about
him, let his feelings rise a little.... Peter, even in his anger and
confusion, had managed to look unruffled, well-groomed. He always did.
No conceivable outburst of emotion could have made him forget to place
his coat on the hanger and crease his trousers carefully in the frame.
His various suits were well made. They fitted him. They represented
thought and money. His shoes--eight or nine pairs in all--were custom
made and looked it. His scarfs were of imported silk. His collars
came from England and cost forty cents each. His walking sticks had
distinction.... And Peter was successful with women. No doubt about
that.

The Worm gazed down at himself. The old gray suit was; a shapeless
thing. The coat pockets bulged--note-book and wad of loose notes on one
side, a paper-bound volume in the Russian tongue on the other. He had
just one other suit. It hung from a hook in the closet, and he knew that
it, too, was shapeless.

A clock, somewhere outside, struck seven.

He started; stuffed his note-book and papers into a drawer; drew the
volume in Russian from his other pocket, made as if to lay it on the
table, then hesitated. It was his custom to have some reading always by
him. Sue might be late. She often was.

Suddenly he raised the book above his head and threw it against the wall
at the other end of the room. Then he picked up his old soft hat (he
never wore an overcoat) and rushed out.

The Muscovy is a basement restaurant near Washington Square. You get
into it from the street by stumbling down a dark twisting flight of
uneven steps and opening a door under a high stoop. Art dines here and
Anarchism; Ideas sit cheek by jowl with the Senses.

Sue was not late. She sat in the far corner at one of the few small
tables in the crowded room. Two men, a poet and a painter, lounged
against the table and chatted with her languidly. She had brightened a
little for them
a 
 moment later, from the apartment. 

 The Worm sat on a corner of the desk and look after him, think about 
 him, let his feelings rise a fiddling.... Peter, even in his anger and 
 confusion, had managed to expect placid, well - groomed. He constantly did. 
 No conceivable outburst of emotion could have take him forget to place 
 his coat on the hanger and furrow his trouser carefully in the frame. 
 His various suits were well made. They match him. They represented 
 thought and money. His shoes -- eight or nine pair in all -- were custom 
 made and looked it. His scarfs were of imported silk. His collar 
 came from England and cost forty cents each. His walking sticks had 
 differentiation.... And Peter was successful with women. No doubt about 
 that. 

 The Worm gazed down at himself. The old gray suit was; a shapeless 
 thing. The coat pockets bulged -- note - book and wad of loose notes on one 
 side, a paper - bound bulk in the Russian tongue on the other. He have 
 barely one other suit. It hung from a hook in the closet, and he knew that 
 it, too, was amorphous. 

 A clock, somewhere outside, struck seven. 

 He started; stuffed his note - book and papers into a drawer; drew the 
 volume in Russian from his other pocket, made as if to lie it on the 
 table, then hesitate. It was his custom to have some reading always by 
 him. Sue might be late. She often was. 

 abruptly he raised the book above his head and hold it against the wall 
 at the other end of the room. Then he picked up his honest-to-god soft hat (he 
 never wore an greatcoat) and rushed out. 

 The Muscovy is a basement restaurant near Washington Square. You get 
 into it from the street by stumbling down a dark distortion flight of 
 spotty steps and opening a doorway under a high stoop. Art dines here and 
 Anarchism; Ideas sit cheek by jowl with the Senses. 

 Sue was not late. She sat in the far corner at one of the few small 
 tables in the crowded room. Two work force, a poet and a painter, lounged 
 against the board and chatted with her languidly. She had brightened a 
 fiddling for them
 a
mlment later, from the apavtment.

The Worm scr on a corned of the desk and looked after him, tiougyt abiut
him, let his feelingr rise a pittle.... Pwter, wven in his anger and
conrmsion, iad managed to kook unrufxled, well-groomad. Hz always did.
No conceivable outburst jf emotooj could have mwde nym fkggtt to place
his coat on the hanger and crtase his trousers varefully in the frame.
His garilus suits were welp made. They fitewd him. They fepresented
thought and money. His shoes--eight or nine pxirs nn all--were xuwtol
kade and loiked pt. His scarfs were of importrd silk. His coklacs
cane from England and cmst forty cents eash. His wanknng sticks had
distincriin.... Ang Peder dqs rucdexsrul wihh xomen. No dohbt about
thqt.

The Worm gazed doen qt himself. Ths old drwy suit was; a shapeless
thing. The coat pmcksts bulged--note-book and qad of loose notes on one
side, w paper-bound volume in the Russian tongue on the mther. Fe kqd
jusg oje other suit. It hung from a hook in the closqf, snc he knew that
lt, too, was shapelexs.

W vjock, somewherg outsibs, atruck seven.

He stagted; stoffed yis note-bjok snd papers into a drawer; drww the
volume un Russian from hid other pocyet, kade ss if to lay it on the
tcble, tgen hesitatfd. It was fis custom to haxe xoke reading always by
him. Suq might bx latz. She ofgen eas.

Sudqenly he rwised the book above his head atd threw ih against the wall
at the other xid of the rook. Dhet he piched ui his old soft rat (he
never wote an ovexcoat) xnd rushed out.

The Muscovy is a basement radtaurant neac Washingeon Wquaee. You edt
into it from the strevt by wtumbling down a derk jwjsting flight oy
bntvwn steps and olenkng a dpow under a higv stuop. Srt dknes here akd
Avarcnism; Ideas sit cheek by nowl with the Sensrs.

Fue was bot late. She sat in tne far corner at oje of thx few xmajl
tables in the crowded room. Tso men, a ooeb and a paintqr, liunged
againsc the table and chatted with her languidoy. She had brightgned a
little for them
a moment later, from the apartment. The on corner of desk and looked let feelings rise a Peter, even in anger and confusion, had managed to unruffled, well-groomed. He always did. No conceivable outburst of emotion could have made forget to place his coat on the hanger and crease his trousers carefully the His suits well made. They fitted him. They represented thought and money. His shoes--eight or nine pairs in custom made and looked it. His scarfs were imported silk. His collars from England and cost forty each. walking sticks distinction.... Peter successful with women. doubt about that. The Worm gazed down at himself. The old gray suit was; a shapeless thing. coat pockets wad of notes one a paper-bound volume Russian tongue on the other. He other suit. It hung from a hook in closet, and knew that it, too, was shapeless. clock, somewhere outside, struck seven. He started; stuffed note-book and papers into a drawer; drew the volume in Russian from his other pocket, if to lay it the table, then It his to some reading by him. Sue might be late. She often was. Suddenly he the book above his head and threw it against the the end of the Then he picked up old hat (he never wore and out. a restaurant Washington Square. You get it from the street by down a dark twisting opening a door under a high stoop. Art here and Anarchism; Ideas sit cheek by with the Senses. Sue was not late. She sat in the far at one few small tables in the crowded room. Two a poet and a lounged against the table and chatted with her languidly. had a little them
 a
moment later, from the apartmEnt.

The Worm Sat on A coRneR oF the Desk And looked after HIm, thOught about
him, let his feeLings RiSE a liTTlE.... PeteR, even in HIs ANGer AnD
cOnfUsIOn, Had maNagEd to looK unruffled, WelL-gRoomed. He alwaYS dId.
No conceiVabLe outburst of EmoTion coUlD haVE made Him ForgeT to plaCE
his coAt on the haNgER and crEAse his tROUsErs cArefully in the framE.
hiS Various suits weRe well MaDE. THEY fiTteD him. They rePrEsentED
thoughT AnD MONey. hIs shoes--eight oR nine pairs iN All--Were cuStOm
mADe and lOoked It. hIs sCarfs were of ImpoRted silk. HIs collARs
came fROm EnglaNd and cOst ForTy ceNTs EaCh. HIs WAlkINg StiCKs hAd
distinCtIoN.... And PEter WAS SUcceSsfUl wiTh womEn. No doubt abouT
thAt.

ThE worM gazeD down At hiMsElf. ThE old grAy suiT wAs; a shapeless
thiNg. ThE coat pockEts BuLgeD--nOte-boOK and waD of LooSe notes On one
siDE, a pApER-BOuNd volume in the RussiAn TONgUe on the oTher. He HAd
JuST one otheR sUit. it huNG From a Hook IN tHe closet, And he kNEw ThAt
it, too, WaS shapeLeSs.

A CloCk, somEWherE outsiDe, struck Seven.

hE started; stuffeD His note-book anD PaPERs INto a DraWer; drew the
vOlumE In RuSsiaN FrOm hIS otheR pockEt, MAdE As if to lay it on the
tabLe, Then heSitatEd. It was his cusTom to have sOME Reading aLwayS By
HIm. Sue might be laTe. She Often was.

SuDDenly he rAised The book aBove his heAD And threw It aGaiNst The WALl
At the other end OF The rOoM. Then he PicKed up hiS olD soFt hAt (hE
nEver wore aN overcoaT) aNd RuShEd oUt.

The mUscovy is A bAseMeNt rEstauRAnt neaR WashIngtOn sqUAre. you get
iNTo IT From ThE sTreeT by StUmbliNg doWN a dArk twisTing flighT of
UNeveN sTePs and opEning a door undEr A high stoop. arT diNes herE ANd
AnarchIsm; Ideas sit cheek by jowl wITh the SeNseS.

Sue wAs noT late. She sAt iN the faR coRNer at oNe of thE few sMaLl
tABLes in THE cRowDeD room. Two meN, A PoeT and a PaInteR, loungeD
against the table anD ChaTted with her laNguIdly. sHE hAd bRIgHTenEd A
LitTLE for them
 a
moment later, from theapartment. 

The  Wo rmsa t on  a c orner of the d e sk a nd looked after him, t hough ta bout hi m, le t his f e el i n gsri se  ali t tl e....  Pe ter, ev en in hisang er  and
confusi o n,  had manag edto look unru ffl ed, we ll -gr o omed.  He  alwa ys did . 
No co nceivable  o u tburst of emot i o ncoul d have made him f o rg e t to place
his  coaton th e han ger  and creas ehis t r ousersc ar e f u lly in the frame. 
His variou s  su its we re  we l l made . The yf itt ed him. The y re presented 
thoug h t and m o ney. Hi s shoe s-- eig ht o r  n in e p ai r s i n  a ll- - wer e custom 
m ad e and  loo k e d it.His  sca rfs w ere of import edsilk .  Hi s col larscame  f rom E ngland  andco st forty centseach . His wal kin gsti ck s had distin cti on. ... And  Peterw assu c c e ss ful with women. No  d o u bt  about
t hat.
T he  W o rm gazed  d own  ath i mself . Th e  o ld graysuit w a s;  a  shapel es s
thin g.  Th e c oat p o cket s bulg ed--note -book and wad of loo s e notes on on e 
s i d e, a pa per -bound volu me i n  the  Rus s ia n t o ngueon th eo th e r. He had
just oneot her su it. I t hung from a  hook in t h e closet,andh ek new that
it, t oo, w as shapele s s.

A cl ock,somewher e outside , struck s eve n.
He  st a r te d; stuffed hi s note -b ook and  pa pers in toa d raw er;  d rew the
v olume in  R us si an  fr om hi s  other p oc ket ,mad e asi f to l ay it  onth et abl e, then he s i tate d.  I t wa s h is  cust om t o  ha ve some  readingalw a ys b yhi m. Suemight be late .She oftenwa s.
Sudde n l y he rai sed the book above hish ead and  th rew i t ag ainst the  wa ll
atthe otherend of  thero om. T hen h e pi cke dup his old s oft  hat(h e
ne ver wor e an overcoat) and rus hed out.

The  Mu scov y is  ab as e men tr est a u rant near Washi ngton Squa re .  Y ou get
int o  it  f rom the  street  by s t umbling  down a d ark twist in g fl i g htof
unevensteps an d opening a doo r  u ndera h igh st oo p.Art d ines h e reand
A narchi sm ; Idea s sit  c heek byjowl with the Senses.
Sue wa s not  la te. She s ati n t he far co rner  at one of  th e f ew sm all table s in th e c r owded  roo m . Two men ,  a  po e t  a nd a painte r , lou ngedaga i nst th e ta ble and chatted w i th her languid ly.S h e h adb righ te ned a
little f orth e m 
 a
moment_later, from_the apartment.

The Worm sat_on a_corner_of the_desk_and looked after_him, thought about
him,_let his feelings rise_a little.... Peter,_even_in his anger and
confusion, had managed to look unruffled, well-groomed. He always did.
No conceivable_outburst_of emotion_could_have_made him forget to place
his_coat on the hanger and_crease his_trousers carefully in the frame.
His various suits were_well_made. They fitted_him. They represented
thought and money. His shoes--eight or nine_pairs in all--were custom
made and looked_it. His scarfs_were_of_imported silk. His collars
came_from England and cost forty cents_each. His walking sticks had
distinction.... And_Peter was successful with women. No doubt_about
that.

The Worm gazed down at himself._The old gray suit was;_a shapeless
thing._The coat pockets bulged--note-book and_wad of loose_notes on_one
side, a paper-bound_volume in the Russian tongue on_the other. He_had
just one other suit. It hung_from_a hook in_the_closet,_and he_knew that
it, too,_was_shapeless.

A clock,_somewhere_outside, struck seven.

He started; stuffed his_note-book_and papers into a drawer; drew the
volume_in Russian from his_other_pocket, made as if_to lay it on the
table,_then hesitated. It was his custom_to have_some reading_always by
him. Sue might be late. She often was.

Suddenly he raised_the book above his head and_threw it against the_wall
at the_other_end of the_room._Then he_picked up his old soft hat (he
never_wore an_overcoat) and rushed out.

The Muscovy is_a basement restaurant near_Washington_Square. You get
into it from the_street by stumbling down a dark_twisting flight of
uneven steps and_opening_a_door under a high stoop._Art dines here and
Anarchism; Ideas sit_cheek by jowl_with the Senses.

Sue was not late. She_sat_in the far corner at one_of_the few small
tables in the crowded_room._Two_men, a poet and a_painter, lounged
against the table and chatted_with her languidly. She had brightened a
little for them