He carried her in his arms up the steps, like a bride on her honeymoon. Jack, whose clothes were covered with dust, and whose face was deathly pale from his recent exertion, looked more like a phantom than a living person. “You little wretch!” she exclaimed weakly. Against the sinister, the threatening, monstrous inhumanity of the limitless city, there was nothing now but this supreme, ugly fact of a pursuit— the pursuit of the undesired, persistent male. "I haven't worn anything else in weeks. For hours after she had not been sensible to life, only to exquisite echoes.
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