"Oh, let her be, Charley, won't you?" the girl coaxes. "And, say, bring me a bitters."
"The dirty loafer! It's money, always gimme money," the woman mumbles; "and I've had such bad luck, Frenchy. You know it's true. Don't you, Frenchy?"
"Yes, yes, dear," the girl soothes her. "Don't talk now. Lean your head on my shoulder, so! You'll be all right in a minute."
The girl sways to and fro, gently patting the woman on the head, and all is still in the room. The woman's breathing grows regular and louder. She snores, and the young girl slowly unwinds her arms and resumes her seat.
I motion to her. "Will you have a drink with me?"
"With pleasure," she smiles. "Poor thing," she nods toward the sleeper, "her fellow beats her and takes all she makes."
"You have a kind heart, Frenchy."
"We girls must be good to each other; no one else will. Some men are so mean, just too mean to live or let others live. But some are nice. Of course, some twirls are bad, but we ain't all like that and—" she hesitates.
"And what?"
"Well, some have seen better days. I wasn't always like this," she adds, gulping down her drink.