“Who are you?” She asked innocently. “No man can realize,” she said, “what that pit can be. Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. It was a work of no slight danger, for every instant a wall, or fragment of a building, came crashing to the ground. His pale and boyish waist was nearly as slim as her own. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. It seems only yesterday that she was running down the Avenue, all hair and legs. After that, we'll go our several ways. Her eyes threatened to leak tears, she blinked. But men are so careless, there's no trusting anything to them! However, I must try to brazen it out. It was situated off a little hallway that led also to the kitchens and the back door to the outside.
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