Excerpt from Women Must Weep: A Novel

Just where West Eleventh street is so queerly deflected into a southward course by the cross-cut of Greenwich avenue and the abrupt birth of Seventh, you may find, among the plain brick dwellings, a sprinkling of smaller structures, two-storied, and even plainer still. Into one of these, death had of late entered, and his coming had been marked by many tears.

Isaac Trask had just died, and lay now in his own little plot at Greenwood, beside the wife who had gone years before. His three daughters felt the awful loneliness that followed his loss, walking about the rooms of their little home and staring at one another now and then with wide, worried, tearless eyes. At intervals, they would meet and talk of him, after each had pretended to busy herself with some task elsewhere. Eunice, the eldest of them, was young, and Annette, the youngest, was a mere slip of a girl. They looked so strange to one another in their black robes, and the house was so still, with that queer stillness which seems always listening for a step!

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