She turned the gas up in her little sitting-room, and sank wearily into an easy chair. “Damn! Things are getting plainer. My foster mother, Janine, wasn’t much fatter. You on the other hand have to come to London, a worker, with the responsibility of life upon your own shoulders—and in addition all the burden of her follies. That handsome, finely drawn face belonged to a soul with clean ideals. “It is very, very difficult,” she continued, looking steadfastly at the ground. Spurlock had sensed what had gone completely over McClintock's head—that this was the playing of a soul in damnation.
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