"My name is Ruth Enschede. But then—Oh! Madam, there are moments—moments of darkness, which overshadow a whole existence—in the lives of the poor houseless wretches who traverse the streets, when reason is well-nigh benighted; when the horrible promptings of despair can, alone, be listened to; and when vice itself assumes the aspect of virtue. “I wish that I could forget it,” he said. What sort of a human being are you, anyhow?" Enschede gazed seaward. On the floor, underneath the sixth row desks, was an ashtray with a small black dot of blood on its blunt round corner.
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