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180 electricity, crowded with undistinguished people. From innumerable saloons and ten-cent shows came the tinkling strains of mechanical music. All the small shops which catered to the needs of the undistinguished were open, to meet their customers' leisure hours, and so the broad, dirty sidewalk lay in one continuous glare of light.

They went into one music-hall—a bare, untidy room, with a few men sitting over their beer, and on the platform a stout, middle-aged woman, in short skirts, rouge, and a picture hat, singing a sentimental song to the accompaniment of a cracked piano. Several girls walked about, talking to the sallow, stolid men. One stood alone near the piano. She was conspicuous in her solitude, and also because, for all the loose coat that hid her figure, it could be seen that she was about to bear a child. One of the men pointed a thumb at her over his shoulder, and said something to his companion; they both laughed. The girl smiled, with a piteous attempt at bravado.

Teresa hurried her party out of the place. Basil took them next to a saloon where he expected to find an acquaintance of his, an ex-prize-fighter, whose reputation for wit extended up and down and even beyond the Bowery. The saloon was crowded and noisy, and a blast of foul language met them as they entered. Basil