The end with Freddie might be far away. But end, she saw,
there would be the day when he would somehow get her in his
power and so would drive her to leave him. For she could not
again become a slave. Extreme youth, utter inexperience, no
knowledge of real freedom--these had enabled her to endure in
former days. But she was wholly different now. She could not
sink back. Steadily she was growing less and less able to
take orders from anyone. This full-grown passion for freedom,
this intolerance of the least restraint--how dangerous, if she
should find herself in a position where she would have to put
up with the caprices of some man or drop down and down!
What real, secure support had she? None. Her building was
without solid foundations. Her struggle with Freddie was a
revelation and a warning. There were days when, driving about
in her luxurious car, she could do nothing but search among
the crowds in the streets for the lonely old women in rags,
picking and peering along the refuse of the cafes--weazened,
warped figures swathed in rags, creeping along, mumbling to
themselves, lips folded in and in over toothless gums.
One day Brent saw again the look she often could not keep from
her face when that vision of the dance hall in the slums was
horrifying her. He said impulsively:
"What is it? Tell me--what is it, Susan?"
It was the first and the last time he ever called her by her
only personal name.
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