We hide it bravely, but so it is. But what the deuce! He was human; he was a machine only when on the hunt. 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. All about her, hither and yon, lay the enticing Unknown. That might happen on her birthday—in August. “If she is borrowing money,” said Miss Stanley, “she MUST be getting into debt.
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