_ LAURA _takes it from her,
crosses to trunk left, starts to unpack it._] Open these trunks, take
out those clothes, get me my prettiest dress. Hurry up. [_She goes
before the mirror._] Get my new hat, dress up my body and paint up my
face. It's all they've left of me. [_To herself._] They've taken my
soul away with them.
ANNIE. [_In a happy voice._] Yassum, yassum.
LAURA. [_Who is arranging her hair._] Doll me up, Annie.
ANNIE. Yuh goin' out, Miss Laura?
LAURA. Yes. I'm going to Rector's to make a hit, and to hell with the
rest!
_At this moment the hurdy-gurdy in the street, presumably immediately
under her window, begins to play the tune of "Bon-Bon Buddie, My
Chocolate Drop." There is something in this ragtime melody which
is particularly and peculiarly suggestive of the low life, the
criminality and prostitution that constitute the night excitement of
that section of New York City known as the Tenderloin. The tune,--its
association,--is like spreading before_ LAURA'S _eyes a panorama of
the inevitable depravity that awaits her. She is torn from every ideal
that she so weakly endeavoured to grasp, and is thrown into the
mire and slime at the very moment when her emancipation seems to be
assured. The woman, with her flashy dress in one arm and her equally
exaggerated type of picture hat in the other, is nearly prostrated
by the tune and the realization of the future as it is terrifically
conveyed to her.
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