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Updated: May 10, 2025
Must lock up for t' night. Come, stir yerself!" She went up and took Hugh's hand. "Good-night, Deb," he said, carelessly. She had not hoped he would say more; but the tired pain on her mouth just then was bitterer than death. She took his passive hand and kissed it. "Hur'll never see Deb again!" she ventured, her lips growing colder and more bloodless. What did she say that for?
"Good-night, Deb," said one, a mulatto, steadying herself against the gas-post. She needed the post to steady her. So did more than one of them. "Dah's a ball to Miss Potts' to-night. Ye'd best come." "Inteet, Deb, if hur'll come, hur'll hef fun," said a shrill Welsh voice in the crowd.
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