With a poor shawl around her and with heels run down she peers in at the restaurant window, to see other women leading lives very different from hers.
Steadily she has impressed upon her the fact, absolutely undeniable, that as the world is organized there is no especial place for her—certainly no comfort for her.
She finds work, perhaps. Hours as long as the daylight.
Ten minutes late—half a day's fine.
At the end of the day aching feet, aching back, system ill-fed, not enough earned to live upon honestly—and that prospect stretches ahead farther than her poor eyes can see.
"What's the charge, officer?"
"Disorderly conduct, Your Honor."
There's the criminal, good men, politicians, women and bishops, that you are hunting so ardently.
THE BOY
Same story, practically.