"Still," went on the manager, "they are slaves in a sense; they are bought and sold until their original indebtedness is paid. "What for?" rejoined Quilt, evasively. Indignation carried her through that night, that men and the world could so entreat her. Wood having laid hold of the canvass-bag. She knew blood was rushing to his face and other places as well. “Well,” she admitted. “I want a plain word with you about all this. She reached for the door handle. “I will go,” he said. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters.
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