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Updated: May 29, 2025
It was a strange eulogy, self-pronounced! But it was none the less true. Then, she had been Rhoda Gray; now, even the Bussard, doubtless, had forgotten her name in the one with which he himself, at that queer baptismal font of crimeland, had christened her the White Moll. It even went further than that.
"You'll never find that address, Rhoda-or our friend the Bussard, either!" But she had found both the Bussard and the address, and destitution and a squalor unspeakable.
Pete McGee, alias the Bussard, the man had said his name was. He couldn't get any work; there was the shadow of a long abode in Sing Sing that lay upon him as a curse a job here to-day, his record discovered to-morrow, and the next day out on the street again. It was very old, very threadbare, that story; there were even the sick wife, the hungry, unclothed children; but to her it had rung true.
There hadn't been any friends either, apart from a few of her father's casual business acquaintances; no one else except the Bussard. It was very strange! Her reward for that one friendly act had come in a manner little expected, and it had come very quickly.
Her father had not placed the slightest faith in it, and but for her intervention the Bussard would have been incontinently consigned to the mercies of the police. Her face softened suddenly now as she walked along. She remembered well that scene, when, at the end, she had written down the address the man had given her. "Father is going to let you go, McGee, because I ask him to," she had said.
She had sought and found a genuine relief from her own sorrow in doing what she could to alleviate the misery in that squalid, one-room home. And then the sphere of her activities had broadened, slowly at first, not through any preconceived intention on her part, but naturally, and as almost an inevitable corollary consequent upon her relations with the Bussard and his ill-fortuned family.
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