She found herself again in the presence of some element in life about which she had been trained not to think, about which she was perhaps instinctively indisposed to think; something which jarred, in spite of all her mental resistance, with all her preconceptions of a clean and courageous girl walking out from Morningside Park as one walks out of a cell into a free and spacious world. There was a tearing sound and the cloth of her habit ripped apart as the smothered point drove through it, missing its intended target. Dolby was portly and handsome. ‘You could have fetched me home. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. “I feel shabby and disgraced. She did not therefore reveal to him that he had guaged her with accuracy. Moreoever, it had cost her a whipping and several days’ imprisonment in her cell on bread and water.
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