Each one had been different from the others, each had had a quality all its own, a distinctive freshness, a distinctive beauty. That was the inconvenience of it; her head was swimming. Dorling said deferentially. She could see that she was now the exclusive object of the boy’s attention. She decided that she would try to push whatever resolve he had in the car to see where it would lead. But then—Oh! Madam, there are moments—moments of darkness, which overshadow a whole existence—in the lives of the poor houseless wretches who traverse the streets, when reason is well-nigh benighted; when the horrible promptings of despair can, alone, be listened to; and when vice itself assumes the aspect of virtue.
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