Her hands--for she wore no gloves--wanted washing.
"What a young girl like yourself must not do," said I, "is to enter into conversation with men in public places." "Then I shall have to die," she said, forlornly, edging away from my side.
She had the oddest little foreign accent.

I looked at her again more critically, and discovered what it was that made her look so disreputable.

She was wearing an old black dress many sizes too big for her.

Great pleats of it were secured by pins in unexpected places, so that quaint chaos was made of the scheme of decoration--black velvet and bugles--on the bodice.

Instinctively I felt that a middle-aged, fat, second-hand-clothes-dealing Jewess had built it many years ago for synagogue wear.