"Wine room. Don't turn me over to the police. I won't go there again."
"Can't you remember now where you live?"
"It is a long ways from here—over on the West Side. I won't go there in this fix. I would rather die."
"Then I don't know what to do."
"Don't turn me over to the police," she moaned.
He stood with his hat in his hand, looking up and down the street. From the corner came the whack of the policeman's club against a lamp post. Not far away the fountain splashed its music. "Can you walk?" he asked.
"I'll try. But where are you going to take me?"
"To my home."
"No," she cried piteously. "I don't want a woman to see me this way."
"No woman is there to see you. Come on."