“I’ve plenty of pals,” he said, “who, when they’ve been doing Paris on the Q. She was sitting on the mean straw mattress that was placed on the iron bedstead in the makeshift cell, while Melusine stood with her back to the door, confronting her old nurse with the truth. She had never felt so acutely the desire for free initiative, for a life unhampered by others. Two or three podgy-looking old men with wives to match, half-a-dozen overdressed girls, and a couple of underdressed American ones, who still wore the clothes in which they had been tramping half over London since breakfast time. She isn't used to cities. You'll live to hate chicken; and the man in you will rise up and demand strong drink. Bought the freedom of a sing-song girl; and all the while you knew you'd have to tote the girl back. Then, quite insensibly, her queenliness had declined. The thought allured him, and therein lay the danger. .
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