CHAPTER VIII.
FACING THE PROBLEM My fingers closed yet more tightly over the small hand, but her face remained rigid, the lines deep about the mouth.
"The landlady had turned me out," speaking now bitterly and swiftly, "retaining my few belongings, and calling me a foul name which made me cower away like a whipped child.

I had nothing left--nothing.

For a week I had listened to no kind word, met with no kind act.

I was upon the street, alone, at night, purposeless, homeless, wandering aimlessly from place to place, weakened by hunger, stupefied by despair.

Men spoke to me, and I fled their presence as though they were pestilence; women, painted, shameless creatures, greeted me in passing as one of their own class, and I sought to avoid them.