The Golden Cup [antikvár]

All her hfe she would remember the somber autumn sky, how vast and high and cold it had been while the great wind raced from the East River toward Broadway. When she was very old she would still marvel, as do we all, over the randomness of things, for if she had not happened to turn just that comer, in just that hour, her whole life would have been different. The child whose hand she held would vaguely remember cries and lurid color, a blur of savage yellow, confusion and a terror not half understood. And another child, the one who came to be bom because she had turned that corner, would hear a tale of heroism, as it grew to become a family legend, until he was sick of hearing it. The tenement burned. Over its scorched brick walls the fire scurried and flurried, tearing as with giant claws its nbers and sinews. Out of its ruined heart there rose a spiral of flame; strong and fierce, it soared into the wind, and a bitter smoke poured over the rooftops. Powerful arcs of water shot from