A SCENE FROM THE PHOTOPLAY. Her little bedsitting-room was like a lair, and she went out from it into this vast, dun world, with its smoke-gray houses, its glaring streets of shops, its dark streets of homes, its orange-lit windows, under skies of dull copper or muddy gray or black, much as an animal goes out to seek food. Had she said the words aloud? He pulled her close and she nuzzled her head on his chest. To return was impossible,—to raise himself certain destruction. After all, he had the means of setting this tormenting doubt at rest. “I want you to kiss me,” she said. Only the night before, in the dining room of the Hong-Kong Hotel, she had watched him empty glass after glass of whisky, and shudder and shudder. Though meant to produce a totally different effect, the narrative seemed to excite the risible propensities rather than the commiseration of his auditor; and when Mr. You DO use vile language!” “Forget about it like this.
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