THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
"Nobody's going to hurt you," said the woman, indifferently. "Have you any idea where you are?"
"Yes."
"Oh. Well, it's Malay Street, all right. Now, don't waste your breath calling out. When there's no tourists in town, the Sikh police don't bother to watch us carefully. And if they do hear you they'll think it's the usual racket. If you're sensible you'll be allowed the freedom of this bedroom. If you kick up, why, I'll have to tie you. You needn't look so scared. You won't see any men, if that's worrying you."
"Are you an American?"
"There's no nationality in this business," said the woman, shrugging. "And don't waste your breath asking questions. They won't be answered."
"How … how long are you going to keep me here? I have no money."
"I don't know how long. That depends upon you. When they come for you you'll find out what you want to know. I'll send food up to you. But no nonsense. It won't do you a bit of good."
"Do you want money?"
"You've just told me you hadn't any."
The woman went out, shut the door, and locked it. Ruth sat down on the bed, fingering the glass heads of her hat-pins. If any one so much as touched her, she would strike to kill. If only her body would cease its idiotic trembling! … They! Who were they who would come for her?
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