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 l remembered. I did not go into the store, nor even toward our house, I went downtown instead and sat in my room, trying to read. Why did the writer stop in front of the store?