As he looked around, he beheld an incessant stream of passengers hurrying on below. For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness. When in the plenitude of his power, he commenced a terrible trade, till then unknown—namely, a traffic in human blood. I have very few friends in Paris. He thought of her and himself, and no longer in that vein of incidental adventure in which he had begun. Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. She's my mealticket.
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