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. This morning he heard voices—McClintock's and the Wastrel's. Is that it? I thought this very pretty. "Why can't I?" "You will be compromised. How many ends had he? Well, she must cease to trouble herself for this imbecile, whom it would give her very much pleasure to shoot. To surrender himself to the law, to face trial and imprisonment, was out of the question.
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