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Those Who Toil
This story was written from the Photoplay of DANIEL
CARSON GOODMAN
The woman on the street corner drew a long, slow breath and snapped the white, silk mask above the tragedy of her face. On the instant comedy smirked in its stead. The dead black of shabby hat and gown took on the frivolity of a pierrot's trappings, and only the dark eyes smouldering behind the mask gave the lie to her air of lighthearted mummery.
"Lights — thousands of them, and music and dancing," she murmured, as she crossed the street and mingled with the gaudy throng of revelers, masked like herself, who rolled, in a fantastic torrent, across the canopied sidewalks and up the crimson, carpeted steps of Millionaire Jameson's house. A nun in gray satin, with the coquetry of a courtesan, jostled her; a Dresden shepherd thrust a silver staff beneath her arm to trip up a jingling fool. Laughter clamored in her ears, and talk, light as hollow tinsel falls. Remembering her sister's ashy face only six hours before, the woman laughed aloud, and with the sound a tall, broad-shouldered fellow in the garb of a friar turned to peer into her face. "You are merry, sister !" Thru the eve-holes her amrer blazed
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so that he fell back in amazement. "And why not?" she answered. "I saw a woman die this afternoon. I think it is a funny world where this and that go on side by side."
Without stopping to note the effect of her words, she pushed her way into the wide hall, gave a rapid glance at the crowded vistas on either side, and fought an upstream passage against the tide of revelry flowing noisily down the great staircase.
Ten minutes later William Jameson, Petroleum King, looked up from the papers scattered over his inlaid mahogany desk, to see a slim, black figure, wearing a white silk mask, standing in the door of his private library. If he was startled he did not show it. He was a man who held all human emotions in an iron leash of will. He finished the sentence he was writing, blotted it carefully, and laid down his pen.
"Well," he said, ''what can I do for you ?"
The woman in the doorway raised a slim, strong hand — the hand of a worker, not an idler — and slipped off the mask, tossing it contemptuousjy to the floor. He saw a white, passionate face with high