The merchant, looking up at one of these intermissions, saw Peter
standing at his counter. He came out of the circle and asked Peter what
he wanted. The mulatto bought a package of soda and went out.
The chill north wind smelled clean after the odors of the store. Peter
stood with his package of soda, breathing deeply, looking up and down
the street, wondering what to do next. Without much precision of
purpose, he walked diagonally across the street, northward toward a
large faded sign that read, "Killibrew's Grocery." A little later Peter
entered a big, rather clean store which smelled of spices, coffee, and a
faint dash of decayed potatoes. Mr. Killibrew himself, a big, rotund
man, with a round head of prematurely white hair, was visible in a
little glass office at the end of his store. Even through the glazed
partition Peter could see Mr. Killibrew smiling as he sat comfortably at
his desk. Indeed, the grocer's chief assets were a really expansive
friendliness and a pleasant, easily provoked laughter.
He was fifty-two years old, and had been in the grocery business since
he was fifteen.
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