A kindly passer-by had
laughed and told her not to mind.
"Why, that's a sign of breeding, that is, Missie," the man had explained.
"It's the classy ones that are always the worst."
It had come to her afterwards craving with its soft brown, troubled eyes
for forgiveness. But she had never been able to break it of the habit.
Must man for ever be chained by his appetites to the unclean: ever be
driven back, dragged down again into the dirt by his own instincts: ever
be rendered useless for all finer purposes by the baseness of his own
desires?
The City of her Dreams! The mingled voices of the crowd shaped itself
into a mocking laugh.
It seemed to her that it was she that they were laughing at, pointing her
out to one another, jeering at her, reviling her, threatening her.
She hurried onward with bent head, trying to escape them. She felt so
small, so helpless. Almost she cried out in her despair.
She must have walked mechanically. Looking up she found herself in her
own street. And as she reached her doorway the tears came suddenly.
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