" The lad made no answer, but left the room. 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. “It isn’t fair. . ’ It was the Press who forced the identity upon me. He wore a battered sunhelmet, a loin-cloth and a pair of dilapidated canvas shoes. ” “Ugh! That poor girl! What a horrible guy! Did he?” “Yeah, it was his. Wood; "and I did so to see how far your effrontery would carry you. Why aren’t you folded up clean in lavender—as every young woman ought to be? What have you been doing with yourself?. E.
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