At last the Cadillac drew up before a lonely house, set off by a picket fence: a wooden structure, of three stories, antiquated… and yet, there were sumptuous red velvet curtains in the windows; here and there she saw the suggestion of light.

What was this house and why had she been taken to it?

The door of the house opened. She saw two men, rough-looking, uncouth individuals, make for the car.

The chauffeur got out, his cap pulled over his face, coat collar still turned up and the two men went up to him; words were exchanged and one of the men gesticulated toward Marcia; she, petrified with apprehension, watched through the window of the Cadillac.

Then, to her growing uneasiness, she saw the men advance to the door of the car; one, taking a key handed him by the chauffeur, opened the lock, then swung wide the door; his companion thrust his head into the car and in a harsh voice, growled, “O.K., baby, this is it! Get out and hurry it up!”

Marcia gasped. Used all her life to honeyed words, to obsequious deference to her slightest whims, she was taken aback by the uncouth address-and when she recovered her assurance, it was to rely on:her iciest tone, with which she had crushed many an insulting headwaiter at New York’s finest establishments. “How dare you speak to me in that tone of voice, you-you boor!” ~The fellow, whose head peered in at her, laughed and, turning to his companion, mockingly commented, “Uppity little bitch, ain’t she? She’ll give the customers a real treat, eh, Joe?”

“Let’s get her out, so’s I can take a look and tell,” said his companion.

“Are ya gonna come out, or do I hafta drag you by the hair?”

“Wh-what!” Marcia could not believe her ears.

Without waiting for her to affectatiously assume an expression of outraged dignity, the first ruffian reached in and grasped her by the wrist.