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 Jello in a heart-shaped mold. Carrots could be shaped that way, too. There were cribs with pussy-cats on them made in apartment-house sizes that would just fit into that corner beside the bed. She had recently seen a high chair with the back shaped like a rabbit's head. Did you put bootees on little tiny babies or those infinitesimal glove-soft shoes that one saw in windows? Oh, well, hell! Might as well go see this doctor and get it over with. Who wants a baby to tie you down when he's small and go join the army when he gets big?

Dot consulted the address which Maude had given her. It was Dr. Griegman, and he lived two blocks from the Theresa Hotel. She knew that nothing important could happen that day, for she had not the fifty dollars, and Maude had told her that for illegal operations the doctor collected before he put the patient on the table. Still, it would be just as well to see him and find out if he would do it at all.

The doctor's house was a front similar to the one in which she and Eddie had lived. It was perhaps Dot's fevered thoughts that cloaked it in a sinister haze. There seemed something dread and ominous in the many drawn shades, something weird and murderous about the cat who innocently took the sun upon the front steps.

Dot rang the bell. A middle-aged woman whose forte was not English opened the door. She ushered Dot into a huge reception room, and Dot sat down. There were several chairs, a divan, a long, low table. The room was empty save for herself. There was something offensive in the barrenness of the doctor's table. One could fancy the doctor saying, "What! Magazines for the dames who come in here? They don't need them. Their minds are well occupied."

The rug needed sweeping, Dot noted after a time. Another few minutes passed before she observed the