“You come into these sordid surroundings—you mustn’t mind my calling them sordid—and it makes them seem as though they didn’t matter. The policeman raised his voice, slightly agitated. Taken altogether, his physiognomy resembled one of those vagabond heads which Murillo delighted to paint, and for which Guzman d'Alfarache, Lazarillo de Tormes, or Estevanillo Gonzalez might have sat:—faces that almost make one in love with roguery, they seem so full of vivacity and enjoyment. So many things she saw that her interest stumbled rather than leaped from object to object. Where was the harm in letting her go? She could not get far. “Yes. Me—I’m nothing but a country wench, and one who went to the bad.
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