A young man, shabby, but of a very
superior appearance to the people of this quarter, good-
looking, though with a dissolute air, and who seemed waiting
for a customer in attendance, addressed Sybil. "I am going to
Hunt Street," he said, "shall I show you the way?"
She accepted this offer most thankfully. "It is close at
hand, I believe?"
"Here it is," he said; and he turned down a street. "What is
your house?"
"No. 22: a printing-office." said Sybil; for the street she
had entered was so dark she despaired of finding her way, and
ventured to trust so far a guide who was not a policeman.
"The very house I am going to," said the stranger: "I am a
printer." And they walked on some way, until they at length
stopped before a glass and illumined door, covered with a red
curtain. Before it was a group of several men and women
brawling, but who did not notice Sybil and her companion.
"Here we are," said the man; and he pushed the door open,
inviting Sybil to enter. She hesitated; it did not agree with
the description that had been given her by the coffee-house
keeper, but she had seen so much since, and felt so much, and
gone through so much, that she had not at the moment that
clear command of her memory for which she was otherwise
remarkable; but while she faltered, an inner door was
violently thrown open, and Sybil moving aside, two girls,
still beautiful in spite of gin and paint, stepped into the
Street.
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