Instinct had forced her to create something out of rags to satisfy a mysterious craving. Accordingly, when she arrived at the Shovels, with which, as an old haunt in her bygone days of wretchedness she was well acquainted, instead of entering the principal apartment, which she saw at a glance was crowded with company of both sexes, she turned into a small room on the left of the bar, and, as an excuse for so doing, called for something to drink. He pushed her small hand into his jeans. The audience clapped more heartily. That same adventurousness that had already buoyed her through crises that would have overwhelmed any normally feminine girl with shame and horror now became uppermost again. Cathy Beck was terribly upset and was on the verge of exploding.
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