Every impulse in her terrified heart warned her to turn and fly from the place, but it was all in vain.

She could not have moved hand or foot if her very life had been the forfeit.
"So you are toiling away in a place like this for a mere pittance," he went on; "probably hardly enough to keep soul and body together.

That's a confounded shame for a pretty girl like you.

Work isn't for such as you--you ought to be out in the sunshine, dressed in silks and velvets and diamonds galore.

It's bad enough for the old and ugly--those whose hair is streaked with gray and around whose eyes the crow's feet have been planted by the hand of time, to work--ay, toil for their bread.