"While Katie was arguing with the movers, Johnny took Francie up to the roof. She saw a whole new world. Not far away was the the lovely span of the Williamsburg Bridge. Across the East River, like a fairy city made of silver cardboard, the skyscrapers loomed cleanly. There was the Brooklyn Bridge further away like an echos of the nearer bridge.
“It’s pretty,” said Francie. “It’s pretty the same way pictures of in-the-country are pretty.”
“I go over that bridge sometimes when I go to work,” Johnny said.
Francie looked at him in wonder. He went over that magic bridge and still talked and looked like always? She couldn’t get over it. She put her hand out and touched his arm. Surely the wonderful experience of going over that bridge would make him feel different. She was disappointed because his arm felt as it had always felt.
-from A Tree Grows in Brooklyn , by Betty Smith