Two days after its
birth the baby died.
When she left the hospital there was nowhere for her to go. She had
lived in a city but a short time and knew little of its life, and yet
she must work. Mrs. Mundy got a room for her, then a place in a store,
and she did well, kept to herself, but somebody who knew her story saw
her, told the proprietor, and he turned her off. He couldn't keep
girls like that, he said. It would injure his business. Later, she
got in an office. She had learned at night to do typewriting, and
there one of the men was kind to her, began to give her a little
pleasure every now and then. She was young. It was dreary where she
lived, and she craved a bit of brightness. One night he took her to
what she found was--oh, worse than where she has since lived, for it
pretended to be respectable.
"She was terribly afraid of men. It wasn't put on; it was real. I
know pretense when I see it." Mrs. Mundy, who was telling me of the
girl, changed her position and fixed the screen so that the flames from
the fire should not burn her face.
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