At last—I told a story. They crossed the street, and entering the front door passed up the outside stone steps of the flat. Fame of any sort was folly and she knew better. Fancying they were alone, Sir Rowland threw aside his cloak, and produced a heavy bag of money, which he flung upon the table; and, when Wild had feasted his greedy eyes sufficiently upon its golden contents, he handed him a pocketbook filled with notes. For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness. \"Do you want a snack?\" \"No thanks.
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