"Take her record. Next case," says the judge. Outside it is a cold sleeting night in early March.
"Witnesses in case of Nellie Farrel," calls the clerk.
Nellie Farrel stands before the desk beside a policeman; she is tall with fair waving hair. She must have been pretty once; even now there is a delicate line of throat and chin. But her eyes are hard and on her cheeks there are traces of paint that has been hastily rubbed off. She looks thirty; she is probably not more than twenty.
A callow youth, who seems preternaturally keen, swears that on Thirteenth Street between Fifth Avenue and University Place the woman stopped and spoke to him; and he tells his story as though it were learned by rote.
"Do you know the officer who made the arrest?" the judge asks him.
"I do." A suspicion arises that there may be an interest between the witness and the policeman.
A dark-haired, smooth-faced woman who is standing by the prisoner says: "Your Honor, she's my sister. I'm a respectable woman, my husband is a driver. I have three children. It's disgrace enough to have the likes of her in the family. If you'll give her another chance I'll take her home with me; my husband is here and he's willing." The accused looks down piteously.
"Discharged on probation," says the judge, and the family go out.
"That's the third time that's happened to her," whispers a clerk. "Every time the sister comes up like a good one."
A horrible old woman with straggling gray hair, shrivelled neck, and claw-like hands grasps a black shawl about her flat chest. "Mary," says the judge, "thirty days on the island for you."