’ Joan nodded, her face still averted. He began to tell me something—and stopped. Some man! And to conclude it all was the figure of her father in the doorway, giving her a last chance, his hat in one hand, his umbrella in the other, shaken at her to emphasize his point. You'll live to hate chicken; and the man in you will rise up and demand strong drink. Everywhere I went and rapped at a door I found behind it another dreadful dingy woman—another fallen queen, I suppose— dingier than the last, dirty, you know, in grain. Amid this tumult, several men armed with tremendous bludgeons, with their faces besmeared with grease and soot, and otherwise disguised, were observed to be urging the populace to attempt a rescue. I just thought perhaps a different boy was in store for you. Never had her father explained.
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