But he has never been near her—never. “She can’t. She killed a man who was squatting outside of a freezing brick shanty on the southern edge of Chicago as he waited for his dealer. Her dainty shoes were soiled with dust and there was a great tear in her skirt. So I come round the other way and—Lordy, miss, I’m that sorry I made a mull of it. Luck. “Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently. There sat Jack, evidently in the last stage of intoxication, with his collar opened, his dress disarranged, a pipe in his mouth, a bowl of punch and a halfemptied rummer before him,—there he sat, receiving and returning, or rather attempting to return,—for he was almost past consciousness,—the blandishments of a couple of females, one of whom had passed her arm round his neck, while the other leaned over the back of his chair and appeared from her gestures to be whispering soft nonsense into his ear.
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