" "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. She mentioned, with familiar respect, Christ and Buddha and Shelley and Nietzsche and Plato. At Morningside Park I feel as though all my growing up was presently to stop, as though I was being shut in from the light of life, and, as they say in botany, etiolated. Men do services for the love of women, and the woman who takes must pay. And from that they came back by way of the Kreutzer Sonata and Resurrection to Tolstoy again. When I have traversed the streets a houseless wanderer, driven with curses from every door where I have solicited alms, and with blows from every gateway where I have sought shelter,—when I have crept into some deserted building, and stretched my wearied limbs upon a bulk, in the vain hope of repose,—or, worse than all, when, frenzied with want, I have yielded to horrible temptation, and earned a meal in the only way I could earn one,—when I have felt, at times like these, my heart sink within me, I have drank of this drink, and have at once forgotten my cares, my poverty, my guilt.
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