"If there is any honour in you, stop and think. She went to a writing-desk and made some memoranda on a sheet of note-paper, and then remembered that she had no address as yet to which letters could be sent. The Well Hole 336 XIII. For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness. And here are these places, full of contagion! “Of course, this is the real texture of life, this is what we refined secure people forget. Her mouth was once more covered as they left the second floor guest saloon and headed for the back stairs. I told you no good would come of it.
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