"Yes," said Susan.
"So low that there couldn't possibly be left any shred of feeling or decency anywhere in her." Susan did not reply.
"It's not a question of morals, but of sensibility," pursued he. "Some day I'm going to write a play or a story about it. A woman with anything to her, who had to choose between that life and death, wouldn't hesitate an instant. She couldn't. A streetwalker!" And again he made that gesture of disgust.
"Before you write," said Susan, in a queer, quiet voice, "you'll find out all about it. Maybe some of these girls—most of them—all of them—are still human beings. It's not fair to judge people unless you know. And it's so easy to say that someone else ought to die rather than do this or that."
"You can't imagine yourself doing such a thing," urged he.
Susan hesitated, then—"Yes," she said.
Her tone irritated him. "Oh, nonsense! You don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes," said Susan.
"Susie!" he exclaimed, looking reprovingly at her.
She met his eyes without flinching. "Yes," she said. "I have."