Everywhere I went and rapped at a door I found behind it another dreadful dingy woman—another fallen queen, I suppose— dingier than the last, dirty, you know, in grain. She remembered possessing it during the Gold Rush. “My husband!” she laughed a little derisively. Her girl, Clarice, was ten and just as pretty as a silver bell. You look very handsome. I see that compromise is more necessary to life than I ignorantly supposed it to be, and I have been trying to get Lord Morley’s book on that subject, but it does not appear to be available in the prison library, and the chaplain seems to regard him as an undesirable writer. She simply refuses to see or hear from me again. They have retired. It filled her with indefinable fear.
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