I found myself facing a dry-cleaning store which had once been one of the best restaurants in New York. On Sundays the old man would take my mother and me for dinner. There had been a balcony(走廊)where a baker (面包师)in a tall white hat baked fresh bread , and been whenever a customer entered, the baker would look down and put in a fresh batch(一炉).I could see the manager who always sat down with us while we ate .He had some disease , I suppose, because the right side of his face was swollen (肿的)out like a balloon , but he always wore a hard wing collar and a white tie , and never seemed sick .A Negro with a moustache was looking through the store window at me .For a moment I was anxious to go and tell him what I remembered. I did not go into the store , nor even toward our house , I went down town instead and sat in my room , trying to read.

Why did the writer stop in front of the store