“You don’t mean it, Dodger?” said Ben Holt, incredulously.

 

“Yes, I do. I’m going to set up for myself.”

 

“Oh, Dodger,” said Florence, “I’m afraid you will get into trouble for my sake!”

 

“Don’t worry about that, Miss Florence. I’m old enough to take care of myself, and I’ve got tired of livin’ with Tim.”

 

“But he may beat you!”

 

“He’ll have to get hold of me first.”

 

They had reached a four-story tenement² of shabby brick, which was evidently well filled up by a miscellaneous crowd of tenants³; shop girls, mechanics, laborers⁵ and widows, living by their daily toil⁶.

 

Florence had never visited this part of the city, and her heart sank within her as she followed Mrs. O’Keefe through a dirty hallway, up a rickety staircase, to the second floor.

 

“One more flight of stairs, my dear,” said Mrs. O’Keefe, encouragingly. “I’ve got four rooms upstairs; one of them is for you, and one for Dodger.”

 

Florence did not reply. She began to understand at what cost she had secured her freedom from a distasteful marriage.

 

In her Madison Avenue home all the rooms were light, clean and luxuriously⁷ furnished. Here—— But words were inadequate⁸ to describe the contrast.

 

Mrs. O’Keefe threw open the door of a back room about twelve feet square, furnished in the plainest manner, uncarpeted, except for a strip that was laid, like a rug, beside the bedstead.

分享到：