Then I remembered that book and began thinkin' it must have printed what was information for somebody; and I guessed it was for you. Of course, most of it was harmless, but it had one whopper of a lie toward the end that wouldn't have done a thing to me if I'd been simp enough to believe it. I mean the part that talked about a girl keeping herself pure and avoiding impure men for the reward of getting some time a pure one, as if there was such. There ain't no such animal; there's just one sort of man; when you think there's two, the difference is in the places you see 'em."
"Then why—why," Marjorie stammered, "do you have anything to do with them; why do you let them—touch you? Why do you go out with them and" she stopped.
Clara laughed. "Do I pet and kiss comin' home in a cab? Oh, don't worry none about me, dearie. I know more about that stuff—the woman pays—than the one that wrote it. At the same time, when a man does show you a swell time and spend his money, you don't get anywhere by being yourself an absolute dead beat. Sam knows just exactly the distance I step, and knows there's just exactly no chance of my stretching it with him. You better go to bed now, Marjorie; say, ain't the paper on this room swell and this carpet and all this"—Clara gestured vaguely but indicatively of the wide, pleasant spaciousness of the room—"just for you and me."
And Clara continued serenely undressing; and in a minute she was in bed. "Never mind 'bout the light," she murmured comfortably. "Whole Commonwealth-Edison Company—couldn't keep—me awake—if it was—camped on ceiling." And she was asleep
