She had been an expert needlewoman in her better days and this knowledge might earn her their board.
With this in her mind, she had consulted a woman, living on the floor above, who had often spoken to her when they passed each other on the stairs, and who was employed in a department store on 14th Street near Broadway, the result being that Stiger & Company had given "Mrs.
Stanton" a place in the repair shop, her wages being equal to her own and Dalton's board.

This had continued all through the summer, her earnings keeping the roof over their heads, Dalton leaving her for days at a time, his invariable excuse for his absence being that he was "trying to get employment." Finally--and again her eyes burned, and the color mounted to her hot cheeks as she reached this part of her story--there had come that last awful, unforgettable December night.
She had come home from work and had put on a thin silk wrapper, too well worn for pawning, when the door of their little sitting-room was opened and Dalton entered, bringing two men with him.

One of them kept his hat on as he talked, the other slouched his from his head after he had taken a seat and had had a chance to look her over.

The three had come upon her suddenly, and she, realizing her dishabille, had risen hastily, excusing herself, when Dalton, who was half tipsy, stepped between her and her bedroom door.
"No, you'll stay here," he had cried; "you're prettier as you are.

I never saw you so fetching.