She did most urgently desire to save her face in Morningside Park, and for long hours she could think of no way of putting it that would not be in the nature of unconditional admission of defeat. On this side a flight of wooden steps, protected by a hand-rail, led to a door opening upon the summit of the prison. The teacher droned on and on about the mournful funerary love of Romeo and Juliet, a tale she had long since tired of. “There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead.
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