CHAPTER XVI. I ask you, although it is not my place to ask you, to return home. It would be very hard perhaps to make you understand just how I feel about it. They might applaud, or object, or interfere, but the drama was her very own. CHAPTER IV. But also this must not go on. Still, Katy Pfister is a grumpy whore who would open her legs for half the football team if given a chance. We'll lather him with mud, shave him with a rusty razor, and drench him with aqua pompaginis. Katy’s face was vapid and undistinguishable from a crowd, but pretty in an abstract sense, like the face of a baby doll. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him.
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