There was now a girl in the picture, so it seemed. Died short, I suppose, and the girls had to shift for themselves. “You know nothing about the stage. She broke a cobblestone over his head and he was out. She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment. That's a queer yarn. ‘It weren’t my wish, miss, I can tell you that.
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