There was more dancing, more close-ups of Muriel Mercer being stricken with her vision of tenement misery under the foul glare of a middle-aged roue inflamed with wine.

And there was a shot of Muriel perceiving at last the blight of Broadway and going to a table at which sat a pale, noble-looking young man with a high forehead, who presently led her out into the night to the real life of the worthy poor.
Later the deserted admirer became again a roue inflamed with wine and submitted to a close-up that would depict his baffled rage.

He clenched his hands in this and seemed to convey, with a snarling lift of his lip, that the girl would yet be his.

Merton Gill had ceased to smoke.

He had sounded on Broadway even the shallow pleasure of cigarettes.