The girl seemed dazed:
“N-nothing,” she stammered. “The—the horror of that place—the killing—has sickened me. I—I want to go home––”
“You do not intend to denounce me?”
“No—Oh, God! No!”
“Is that the truth? If you are lying to me it means my death.”
The girl gazed at her in horror; tears sprang to her eyes:
“I couldn’t—I couldn’t!” she stammered in a choking voice. “I’ve never before seen death—never seen how it came—how men die! This—this killing is horrible, revolting!” She had laid one trembling little 393 hand on Ilse Dumont’s bare shoulder. “I don’t want to have you killed; the idea of death makes me ill! I’m going home—that is all I ask for—to go home––”
She dropped her pretty head and began to sob hysterically, standing there under the growing daylight of the Boulevard, in her tattered evening gown.
Suddenly Ilse Dumont threw both arms around her and kissed the feverish, tear-wet face:
“You weren’t meant for this!” she whispered. “You do it for money. Go home. Do anything else for wages—anything except this!—Anything, I tell you––”