Everywhere I went and rapped at a door I found behind it another dreadful dingy woman—another fallen queen, I suppose— dingier than the last, dirty, you know, in grain. The hard work will be his, until we yank this young fellow back from the brink. She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired. People were passing in the street below.
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