The Song of the Lark

p. 249

There are spring mornings which “shine like holidays. . . There was in the air that sudden, treacherous softness which makes the Poles who work in the packing-houses get drunk. At such times beauty is necessary, and in Parkingtown there is no place to get it except at the saloons where one can buy for a few hours the illusion of comfort, hope, love–whatever one most longs for.”