In the middle of the little town stood the shop of a Jew dealer in old clothes. “The Annabel who lives here, who sings every night at the ‘Unusual’? They call her by your old name. If they become bad it is through inclination, not necessity. ‘That is, if she’s gone that way. "Of yourself," he replied, in a mournful tone. “Dear me! I wonder what I ought to do. It feels like too much gold-dust clutched in one’s hand. The sounds that reach the ear, and the objects that meet the eye, are all calculated to awaken a train of sad and serious contemplation.
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