six o'clock
The Declaration of Economic Independence is not always a subtle one . There was that about Clara Bloom , even to the rather Hellenic swing of her very tailor-made back and the firm , neat clack of her not too high heels , which proclaimed that a new century had filed her fetter-free from the nine-teen-centuries-long chain of women whose pin-money had too often been blood-money or the filched shekels from trousers pocket or what in the toga corresponded thereto . And yet , when Miss Bloom smiled , which upon occasion she did spontaneously enough to show a gold molar , there were not only Hypatia and Portia in the straight line of her lips , but lurked in the little tip-tilt at the corners a quirk from Psyche , who loved and was so loved , and in the dimple in her chin a manhole , as it were , for Mr. Samuel Lipkind . At six o'clock , where the wintry workaday flows into dusk and Fifth Avenue flows across Broadway , they met , these two , finding each other out in the gaseous shelter of a Subway kiosk . She from the tall , thin , skylightless skyscraper dedicated to the wholesale supply of woman 's insatiable demand for the ribbon gewgaw ; he from a plate-glass shop with his name inscribed across its front and more humbly given over to the more satiable demand of the male for the two-dollar hat . There was a gold-and-black sign which ran across the not inconsiderable width of Mr. Lipkind 's store-front and which invariably captioned his four inches of Sunday-news-paper advertisement : As near as it is possible for the eye to simulate the heart , there was exactly that sentiment in his glance now as he found out Miss Bloom , she in a purple-felt hat and the black scallops of escaping hair , blacker because the red was out in her cheeks .