"Do you see what I am?" she said to the manager.
Nothing pitiful in her voice. It was too late for that.
"He wouldn't touch me: I'm not fit. I want help. Give me some honest work."
She stopped and put her hand on his coat-sleeve. The child she might have been, and never was, looked from her face that moment.
"God made me, I think," she said, humbly.
The manager's thin face reddened.
"God bless my soul! what shall I do, Mr. Storrs?"
The young man's thick lip and thicker eyelid drooped. He laughed, and whispered a word or two.
"Yes," gruffly, being reassured. "There's a policeman outside. Joe, take her out, give her in charge to him."
The negro motioned her before him with a billet of wood he held. She laughed. Her laugh had gained her the name of "Devil Lot."