“Mr. The sing-song girl rose and meekly pattered out of the office into the night. It was less will than education. Everywhere else—the law, medicine, the Stock Exchange—prejudice bars us. Once she stopped in front of a mirror and looked at herself thoughtfully. 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. The smell of gunpowder was strong in the room. It was now a quarter past twelve. Mr. He had a great contempt for the sections the “theorizers” produced. I ought to be able to think things out.
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