"I suppose I could do my work at the office, as there's not much writing--" "Why, of course you can't do your work at home.

You just come round with me now, and look at that again." "No; I can't do it." "Why ?" "I--I've got to dine." "All right," said Fulkerson.

"Dine with me.

I want to take you round to a little Italian place that I know." One may trace the successive steps of March's descent in this simple matter with the same edification that would attend the study of the self-delusions and obfuscations of a man tempted to crime.

The process is probably not at all different, and to the philosophical mind the kind of result is unimportant; the process is everything.
Fulkerson led him down one block and half across another to the steps of a small dwelling-house, transformed, like many others, into a restaurant of the Latin ideal, with little or no structural change from the pattern of the lower middle-class New York home.