prompt:
Chapter: Carrie, left alone by Drouet, listened to his retreating steps, scarcely
realising what had happened. She knew that he had stormed out. It was
some moments before she questioned whether he would return, not now
exactly, but ever. She looked around her upon the rooms, out of which
the evening light was dying, and wondered why she did not feel quite
the same towards them. She went over to the dresser and struck a match,
lighting the gas. Then she went back to the rocker to think.

It was some time before she could collect her thoughts, but when she
did, this truth began to take on importance. She was quite alone.
Suppose Drouet did not come back? Suppose she should never hear anything
more of him? This fine arrangement of chambers would not last long. She
would have to quit them.

To her credit, be it said, she never once counted on Hurstwood. She
could only approach that subject with a pang of sorrow and regret. For
a truth, she was rather shocked and frightened by this evidence of human
depravity. He would have tricked her without turning an eyelash. She
would have been led into a newer and worse situation. And yet she could
not keep out the pictures of his looks and manners. Only this one deed
seemed strange and miserable. It contrasted sharply with all she felt
and knew concerning the man.

But she was alone. That was the greater thought just at present. How
about that? Would she go out to work again? Would she begin to look
around in the business district? The stage! Oh, yes. Drouet had spoken
about that. Was there any hope there? She moved to and fro, in deep
and varied thoughts, while the minutes slipped away and night fell
completely. She had had nothing to eat, and yet there she sat, thinking
it over.

She remembered that she was hungry and went to the little cupboard in
the rear room where were the remains of one of their breakfasts. She
looked at these things with certain misgivings. The contemplation of
food had more significance than usual.

While she was eating she began to wonder how much money she had. It
struck her as exceedingly important, and without ado she went to look
for her purse. It was on the dresser, and in it were seven dollars in
bills and some change. She quailed as she thought of the insignificance
of the amount and rejoiced because the rent was paid until the end of
the month. She began also to think what she would have done if she had
gone out into the street when she first started. By the side of that
situation, as she looked at it now, the present seemed agreeable. She
had a little time at least, and then, perhaps, everything would come out
all right, after all.

Drouet had gone, but what of it? He did not seem seriously angry. He
only acted as if he were huffy. He would come back--of course he would.
There was his cane in the corner. Here was one of his collars. He had
left his light overcoat in the wardrobe. She looked about and tried to
assure herself with the sight of a dozen such details, but, alas, the
secondary thought arrived. Supposing he did come back. Then what?

Here was another proposition nearly, if not quite, as disturbing. She
would have to talk with and explain to him. He would want her to admit
that he was right. It would be impossible for her to live with him.

On Friday Carrie remembered her appointment with Hurstwood, and the
passing of the hour when she should, by all right of promise, have
been in his company served to keep the calamity which had befallen her
exceedingly fresh and clear. In her nervousness and stress of mind she
felt it necessary to act, and consequently put on a brown street dress,
and at eleven o'clock started to visit the business portion once again.
She must look for work.

The rain, which threatened at twelve and began at one, served equally
well to cause her to retrace her steps and remain within doors as it did
to reduce Hurstwood's spirits and give him a wretched day.

The morrow was Saturday, a half-holiday in many business quarters, and
besides it was a balmy, radiant day, with the trees and grass shining
exceedingly green after the rain of the night before. When she went out
the sparrows were twittering merrily in joyous choruses. She could not
help feeling, as she looked across the lovely park, that life was a
joyous thing for those who did not need to worry, and she wished over
and over that something might interfere now to preserve for her the
comfortable state which she had occupied. She did not want Drouet or his
money when she thought of it, nor anything more to do with Hurstwood,
but only the content and ease of mind she had experienced, for, after
all, she had been happy--happier, at least, than she was now when
confronted by the necessity of making her way alone.

When she arrived in the business part it was quite eleven o'clock,
and the business had little longer to run. She did not realise this at
first, being affected by some of the old distress which was a result
of her earlier adventure into this strenuous and exacting quarter. She
wandered about, assuring herself that she was making up her mind to
look for something, and at the same time feeling that perhaps it was
not necessary to be in such haste about it. The thing was difficult to
encounter, and she had a few days. Besides, she was not sure that
she was really face to face again with the bitter problem of
self-sustenance. Anyhow, there was one change for the better. She knew
that she had improved in appearance. Her manner had vastly changed. Her
clothes were becoming, and men--well-dressed men, some of the kind
who before had gazed at her indifferently from behind their polished
railings and imposing office partitions--now gazed into her face with a
soft light in their eyes. In a way, she felt the power and satisfaction
of the thing, but it did not wholly reassure her. She looked for nothing
save what might come legitimately and without the appearance of special
favour. She wanted something, but no man should buy her by false
protestations or favour. She proposed to earn her living honestly.

"This store closes at one on Saturdays," was a pleasing and satisfactory
legend to see upon doors which she felt she ought to enter and inquire
for work. It gave her an excuse, and after encountering quite a number
of them, and noting that the clock registered 12.15, she decided that it
would be no use to seek further to-day, so she got on a car and went to
Lincoln Park. There was always something to see there--the flowers, the
animals, the lake--and she flattered herself that on Monday she would be
up betimes and searching. Besides, many things might happen between now
and Monday.

Sunday passed with equal doubts, worries, assurances, and heaven knows
what vagaries of mind and spirit. Every half-hour in the day the thought
would come to her most sharply, like the tail of a swishing whip, that
action--immediate action--was imperative. At other times she would look
about her and assure herself that things were not so bad--that certainly
she would come out safe and sound. At such times she would think of
Drouet's advice about going on the stage, and saw some chance for
herself in that quarter. She decided to take up that opportunity on the
morrow.

Accordingly, she arose early Monday morning and dressed herself
carefully. She did not know just how such applications were made, but
she took it to be a matter which related more directly to the theatre
buildings. All you had to do was to inquire of some one about the
theatre for the manager and ask for a position. If there was anything,
you might get it, or, at least, he could tell you how.

She had had no experience with this class of individuals whatsoever, and
did not know the salacity and humour of the theatrical tribe. She only
knew of the position which Mr. Hale occupied, but, of all things, she
did not wish to encounter that personage, on account of her intimacy
with his wife.

There was, however, at this time, one theatre, the Chicago Opera House,
which was considerably in the public eye, and its manager, David A.
Henderson, had a fair local reputation. Carrie had seen one or two
elaborate performances there and had heard of several others. She
knew nothing of Henderson nor of the methods of applying, but she
instinctively felt that this would be a likely place, and accordingly
strolled about in that neighbourhood. She came bravely enough to the
showy entrance way, with the polished and begilded lobby, set with
framed pictures out of the current attraction, leading up to the quiet
box-office, but she could get no further. A noted comic opera comedian
was holding forth that week, and the air of distinction and prosperity
overawed her. She could not imagine that there would be anything in such
a lofty sphere for her. She almost trembled at the audacity which might
have carried her on to a terrible rebuff. She could find heart only to
look at the pictures which were showy and then walk out. It seemed to
her as if she had made a splendid escape and that it would be foolhardy
to think of applying in that quarter again.

This little experience settled her hunting for one day. She looked
around elsewhere, but it was from the outside. She got the location of
several playhouses fixed in her mind--notably the Grand Opera House and
McVickar's, both of which were leading in attractions--and then came
away. Her spirits were materially reduced, owing to the newly restored
sense of magnitude of the great interests and the insignificance of her
claims upon society, such as she understood them to be.

That night she was visited by Mrs. Hale, whose chatter and protracted
stay made it impossible to dwell upon her predicament or the fortune
of the day. Before retiring, however, she sat down to think, and gave
herself up to the most gloomy forebodings. Drouet had not put in an
appearance. She had had no word from any quarter, she had spent a
dollar of her precious sum in procuring food and paying car fare. It was
evident that she would not endure long. Besides, she had discovered no
resource.

In this situation her thoughts went out to her sister in Van Buren
Street, whom she had not seen since the night of her flight, and to her
home at Columbia City, which seemed now a part of something that could
not be again. She looked for no refuge in that direction. Nothing but
sorrow was brought her by thoughts of Hurstwood, which would return.
That he could have chosen to dupe her in so ready a manner seemed a
cruel thing.

Tuesday came, and with it appropriate indecision and speculation. She
was in no mood, after her failure of the day before, to hasten forth
upon her work-seeking errand, and yet she rebuked herself for what she
considered her weakness the day before. Accordingly she started out to
revisit the Chicago Opera House, but possessed scarcely enough courage
to approach.

She did manage to inquire at the box-office, however.

"Manager of the company or the house?" asked the smartly dressed
individual who took care of the tickets. He was favourably impressed by
Carrie's looks.

"I don't know," said Carrie, taken back by the question.

"You couldn't see the manager of the house to-day, anyhow," volunteered
the young man. "He's out of town."

He noted her puzzled look, and then added: "What is it you wish to see
about?"

"I want to see about getting a position," she answered.

"You'd better see the manager of the company," he returned, "but he
isn't here now."

"When will he be in?" asked Carrie, somewhat relieved by this
information.

"Well, you might find him in between eleven and twelve. He's here after
two o'clock."

Carrie thanked him and walked briskly out, while the young man gazed
after her through one of the side windows of his gilded coop.

"Good-looking," he said to himself, and proceeded to visions of
condescensions on her part which were exceedingly flattering to himself.

One of the principal comedy companies of the day was playing an
engagement at the Grand Opera House. Here Carrie asked to see the
manager of the company. She little knew the trivial authority of this
individual, or that had there been a vacancy an actor would have been
sent on from New York to fill it.

"His office is upstairs," said a man in the box-office.

Several persons were in the manager's office, two lounging near a
window, another talking to an individual sitting at a roll-top desk--the
manager. Carrie glanced nervously about, and began to fear that she
should have to make her appeal before the assembled company, two of
whom--the occupants of the window--were already observing her carefully.

"I can't do it," the manager was saying; "it's a rule of Mr. Frohman's
never to allow visitors back of the stage. No, no!"

Carrie timidly waited, standing. There were chairs, but no one motioned
her to be seated. The individual to whom the manager had been talking
went away quite crestfallen. That luminary gazed earnestly at some
papers before him, as if they were of the greatest concern.

"Did you see that in the 'Herald' this morning about Nat Goodwin,
Harris?"

"No," said the person addressed. "What was it?" "Made quite a curtain
address at Hooley's last night. Better look it up."

Harris reached over to a table and began to look for the "Herald."

"What is it?" said the manager to Carrie, apparently noticing her for
the first time. He thought he was going to be held up for free tickets.

Carrie summoned up all her courage, which was little at best. She
realised that she was a novice, and felt as if a rebuff were certain. Of
this she was so sure that she only wished now to pretend she had called
for advice.

"Can you tell me how to go about getting on the stage?"

It was the best way after all to have gone about the matter. She
was interesting, in a manner, to the occupant of the chair, and the
simplicity of her request and attitude took his fancy. He smiled, as did
the others in the room, who, however, made some slight effort to conceal
their humour.

"I don't know," he answered, looking her brazenly over. "Have you ever
had any experience upon the stage?"

"A little," answered Carrie. "I have taken part in amateur
performances."

She thought she had to make some sort of showing in order to retain his
interest.

"Never studied for the stage?" he said, putting on an air intended as
much to impress his friends with his discretion as Carrie.

"No, sir."

"Well, I don't know," he answered, tipping lazily back in his chair
while she stood before him. "What makes you want to get on the stage?"

She felt abashed at the man's daring, but could only smile in answer to
his engaging smirk, and say:

"I need to make a living."

"Oh," he answered, rather taken by her trim appearance, and feeling as
if he might scrape up an acquaintance with her. "That's a good reason,
isn't it? Well, Chicago is not a good place for what you want to do.
You ought to be in New York. There's more chance there. You could hardly
expect to get started out here." Carrie smiled genially, grateful that
he should condescend to advise her even so much. He noticed the smile,
and put a slightly different construction on it. He thought he saw an
easy chance for a little flirtation.

"Sit down," he said, pulling a chair forward from the side of his desk
and dropping his voice so that the two men in the room should not hear.
Those two gave each other the suggestion of a wink.

"Well, I'll be going, Barney," said one, breaking away and so addressing
the manager. "See you this afternoon."

"All right," said the manager.

The remaining individual took up a paper as if to read.

"Did you have any idea what sort of part you would like to get?" asked
the manager softly.

"Oh, no," said Carrie. "I would take anything to begin with."

"I see," he said. "Do you live here in the city?"

"Yes, sir."

The manager smiled most blandly.

"Have you ever tried to get in as a chorus girl?" he asked, assuming a
more confidential air.

Carrie began to feel that there was something exuberant and unnatural in
his manner.

"No," she said.

"That's the way most girls begin," he went on, "who go on the stage.
It's a good way to get experience."

He was turning on her a glance of the companionable and persuasive
manner.

"I didn't know that," said Carrie.

"It's a difficult thing," he went on, "but there's always a chance, you
know." Then, as if he suddenly remembered, he pulled out his watch and
consulted it. "I've an appointment at two," he said, "and I've got to
go to lunch now. Would you care to come and dine with me? We can talk it
over there."

"Oh, no," said Carrie, the whole motive of the man flashing on her at
once. "I have an engagement myself."

"That's too bad," he said, realising that he had been a little
beforehand in his offer and that Carrie was about to go away. "Come in
later. I may know of something."

"Thank you," she answered, with some trepidation and went out.

"She was good-looking, wasn't she?" said the manager's companion, who
had not caught all the details of the game he had played.

"Yes, in a way," said the other, sore to think the game had been lost.
"She'd never make an actress, though. Just another chorus girl--that's
all."

This little experience nearly destroyed her ambition to call upon the
manager at the Chicago Opera House, but she decided to do so after a
time. He was of a more sedate turn of mind. He said at once that there
was no opening of any sort, and seemed to consider her search foolish.

"Chicago is no place to get a start," he said. "You ought to be in New
York."

Still she persisted, and went to McVickar's, where she could not find
any one. "The Old Homestead" was running there, but the person to whom
she was referred was not to be found.

These little expeditions took up her time until quite four o'clock, when
she was weary enough to go home. She felt as if she ought to continue
and inquire elsewhere, but the results so far were too dispiriting. She
took the car and arrived at Ogden Place in three-quarters of an hour,
but decided to ride on to the West Side branch of the Post-office, where
she was accustomed to receive Hurstwood's letters. There was one
there now, written Saturday, which she tore open and read with mingled
feelings. There was so much warmth in it and such tense complaint at her
having failed to meet him, and her subsequent silence, that she rather
pitied the man. That he loved her was evident enough. That he had wished
and dared to do so, married as he was, was the evil. She felt as if the
thing deserved an answer, and consequently decided that she would write
and let him know that she knew of his married state and was justly
incensed at his deception. She would tell him that it was all over
between them.

At her room, the wording of this missive occupied her for some time, for
she fell to the task at once. It was most difficult.

"You do not need to have me explain why I did not meet you," she wrote
in part. "How could you deceive me so? You cannot expect me to have
anything more to do with you. I wouldn't under any circumstances. Oh,
how could you act so?" she added in a burst of feeling. "You have
caused me more misery than you can think. I hope you will get over your
infatuation for me. We must not meet any more. Good-bye."

She took the letter the next morning, and at the corner dropped it
reluctantly into the letter-box, still uncertain as to whether she
should do so or not. Then she took the car and went down town.

This was the dull season with the department stores, but she was
listened to with more consideration than was usually accorded to young
women applicants, owing to her neat and attractive appearance. She was
asked the same old questions with which she was already familiar.

"What can you do? Have you ever worked in a retail store before? Are you
experienced?"

At The Fair, See and Company's, and all the great stores it was much the
same. It was the dull season, she might come in a little later, possibly
they would like to have her.

When she arrived at the house at the end of the day, weary and
disheartened, she discovered that Drouet had been there. His umbrella
and light overcoat were gone. She thought she missed other things, but
could not be sure. Everything had not been taken.

So his going was crystallising into staying. What was she to do now?
Evidently she would be facing the world in the same old way within a day
or two. Her clothes would get poor. She put her two hands together
in her customary expressive way and pressed her fingers. Large tears
gathered in her eyes and broke hot across her cheeks. She was alone,
very much alone.

Drouet really had called, but it was with a very different mind from
that which Carrie had imagined. He expected to find her, to justify
his return by claiming that he came to get the remaining portion of his
wardrobe, and before he got away again to patch up a peace.

Accordingly, when he arrived, he was disappointed to find Carrie out.
He trifled about, hoping that she was somewhere in the neighbourhood and
would soon return. He constantly listened, expecting to hear her foot on
the stair.

When he did so, it was his intention to make believe that he had just
come in and was disturbed at being caught. Then he would explain his
need of his clothes and find out how things stood.

Wait as he did, however, Carrie did not come. From pottering around
among the drawers, in momentary expectation of her arrival he changed
to looking out of the window, and from that to resting himself in the
rocking-chair. Still no Carrie. He began to grow restless and lit a
cigar. After that he walked the floor. Then he looked out of the window
and saw clouds gathering. He remembered an appointment at three. He
began to think that it would be useless to wait, and got hold of his
umbrella and light coat, intending to take these things, any way. It
would scare her, he hoped. To-morrow he would come back for the others.
He would find out how things stood.

As he started to go he felt truly sorry that he had missed her. There
was a little picture of her on the wall, showing her arrayed in the
little jacket he had first bought her--her face a little more wistful
than he had seen it lately. He was really touched by it, and looked into
the eyes of it with a rather rare feeling for him.

"You didn't do me right, Cad," he said, as if he were addressing her in
the flesh.

Then he went to the door, took a good look around and went out.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: We pick up with Carrie who is right where we last left her: alone in the apartment right after Drouet stormed out. Having never seen him so upset, she's dumfounded. Carrie climbs into the old rocking chair to think about her predicament. If Drouet never comes back, she knows she's not going to be able to stay in the apartment. She thinks about what a total jerk Hurstwood is, though she still has some attraction to him; most of all, she feels alone. She realizes she's starving and goes to the cupboard to get something to eat, and as she's munching, she starts to worry about her financial situation. She checks her purse to see how much money she has. Only seven dollars? Ugh. She worries more. She's not sure whether she wants Drouet to come back or not. Remember that day Carrie was supposed to meet Hurstwood in the park but never showed? Apparently, she goes looking for work instead of meeting up with him. But it rains so she goes back home. The next day she goes off to look for work again in the business district. As she wanders around, she thinks maybe she doesn't need to get a job right away after all. It's Saturday so everything's closing early anyway, and she might as well go to the park instead, she figures. She hangs around the apartment for most of Sunday, thinking about how she should really try pursuing that acting thing she was so good at. Bright and early Monday morning, she heads to the Chicago Opera House, but when she gets there she's so intimidated that she can't work up the courage to go inside. She tries a few other theaters, but chickens out with them too. That night she hangs out with her old pal Mrs. Hale, but finds no comfort. Carrie returns to the Chicago Opera House the next day. She makes more progress this time by telling the ticket-taker that she's interested in getting work in the theater. The ticket guy directs Carrie to the manager's office, who she nervously asks how she should go about getting on the stage. He and his entourage can barely contain their laughter at the naivete of this girl; the manager humors her a little by advising her to try to become a chorus girl. The manager invites her to lunch. Alarm bells go off in her head--she figures it's probably not her acting that he's interested in. She says that she has another engagement and he tells her to come back again sometime--he might have something for her. She does end up going back to inquire about his offer, but by then he's resentful at having been brushed off by this little nobody, so he tells her he has nothing for her. He adds that she should go to New York City where there are more opportunities for beginners. Carrie goes to another theater, but can't find anyone to talk to. On her way home she stops at the post office, and there it is: the letter Hurstwood had written her asking why she never showed that day. She writes a letter that basically tells him off and mails it the next day. Then she goes downtown to look for work in department stores. No luck. She returns home to find out that Drouet's been back to get some of his stuff, and feels so lonely that she starts crying. We learn that Drouet came back intending to use the old "I'm here to get my stuff" excuse as a way to see Carrie and get back together. When he saw she wasn't there though, he took his stuff and left.


prompt:
Chapter: It was when he returned from his disturbed stroll about the streets,
after receiving the decisive note from McGregor, James and Hay, that
Hurstwood found the letter Carrie had written him that morning. He
thrilled intensely as he noted the handwriting, and rapidly tore it
open.

"Then," he thought, "she loves me or she would not have written to me at
all."

He was slightly depressed at the tenor of the note for the first few
minutes, but soon recovered. "She wouldn't write at all if she didn't
care for me."

This was his one resource against the depression which held him. He
could extract little from the wording of the letter, but the spirit he
thought he knew.

There was really something exceedingly human--if not pathetic--in his
being thus relieved by a clearly worded reproof. He who had for so
long remained satisfied with himself now looked outside of himself for
comfort--and to such a source. The mystic cords of affection! How they
bind us all.

The colour came to his cheeks. For the moment he forgot the letter from
McGregor, James and Hay. If he could only have Carrie, perhaps he could
get out of the whole entanglement--perhaps it would not matter. He
wouldn't care what his wife did with herself if only he might not lose
Carrie. He stood up and walked about, dreaming his delightful dream of a
life continued with this lovely possessor of his heart.

It was not long, however, before the old worry was back for
consideration, and with it what weariness! He thought of the morrow and
the suit. He had done nothing, and here was the afternoon slipping away.
It was now a quarter of four. At five the attorneys would have gone
home. He still had the morrow until noon. Even as he thought, the last
fifteen minutes passed away and it was five. Then he abandoned the
thought of seeing them any more that day and turned to Carrie.

It is to be observed that the man did not justify himself to himself. He
was not troubling about that. His whole thought was the possibility of
persuading Carrie. Nothing was wrong in that. He loved her dearly. Their
mutual happiness depended upon it. Would that Drouet were only away!

While he was thinking thus elatedly, he remembered that he wanted some
clean linen in the morning.

This he purchased, together with a half-dozen ties, and went to the
Palmer House. As he entered he thought he saw Drouet ascending the
stairs with a key. Surely not Drouet! Then he thought, perhaps they had
changed their abode temporarily. He went straight up to the desk.

"Is Mr. Drouet stopping here?" he asked of the clerk.

"I think he is," said the latter, consulting his private registry list.
"Yes."

"Is that so?" exclaimed Hurstwood, otherwise concealing his
astonishment. "Alone?" he added.

"Yes," said the clerk.

Hurstwood turned away and set his lips so as best to express and conceal
his feelings.

"How's that?" he thought. "They've had a row."

He hastened to his room with rising spirits and changed his linen. As he
did so, he made up his mind that if Carrie was alone, or if she had gone
to another place, it behooved him to find out. He decided to call at
once.

"I know what I'll do," he thought. "I'll go to the door and ask if Mr.
Drouet is at home. That will bring out whether he is there or not and
where Carrie is."

He was almost moved to some muscular display as he thought of it. He
decided to go immediately after supper.

On coming down from his room at six, he looked carefully about to see
if Drouet was present and then went out to lunch. He could scarcely eat,
however, he was so anxious to be about his errand. Before starting he
thought it well to discover where Drouet would be, and returned to his
hotel.

"Has Mr. Drouet gone out?" he asked of the clerk.

"No," answered the latter, "he's in his room. Do you wish to send up a
card?" "No, I'll call around later," answered Hurstwood, and strolled
out.

He took a Madison car and went direct to Ogden Place this time walking
boldly up to the door. The chambermaid answered his knock.

"Is Mr. Drouet in?" said Hurstwood blandly.

"He is out of the city," said the girl, who had heard Carrie tell this
to Mrs. Hale.

"Is Mrs. Drouet in?"

"No, she has gone to the theatre."

"Is that so?" said Hurstwood, considerably taken back; then, as if
burdened with something important, "You don't know to which theatre?"

The girl really had no idea where she had gone, but not liking
Hurstwood, and wishing to cause him trouble, answered: "Yes, Hooley's."

"Thank you," returned the manager, and, tipping his hat slightly, went
away.

"I'll look in at Hooley's," thought he, but as a matter of fact he did
not. Before he had reached the central portion of the city he thought
the whole matter over and decided it would be useless. As much as he
longed to see Carrie, he knew she would be with some one and did not
wish to intrude with his plea there. A little later he might do so--in
the morning. Only in the morning he had the lawyer question before him.

This little pilgrimage threw quite a wet blanket upon his rising
spirits. He was soon down again to his old worry, and reached the resort
anxious to find relief. Quite a company of gentlemen were making the
place lively with their conversation. A group of Cook County politicians
were conferring about a round cherry-wood table in the rear portion of
the room. Several young merrymakers were chattering at the bar before
making a belated visit to the theatre. A shabbily-genteel individual,
with a red nose and an old high hat, was sipping a quiet glass of ale
alone at one end of the bar. Hurstwood nodded to the politicians and
went into his office.

About ten o'clock a friend of his, Mr. Frank L. Taintor, a local sport
and racing man, dropped in, and seeing Hurstwood alone in his office
came to the door.

"Hello, George!" he exclaimed.

"How are you, Frank?" said Hurstwood, somewhat relieved by the sight of
him. "Sit down," and he motioned him to one of the chairs in the little
room.

"What's the matter, George?" asked Taintor. "You look a little glum.
Haven't lost at the track, have you?"

"I'm not feeling very well to-night. I had a slight cold the other day."

"Take whiskey, George," said Taintor. "You ought to know that."

Hurstwood smiled.

While they were still conferring there, several other of Hurstwood's
friends entered, and not long after eleven, the theatres being out, some
actors began to drop in--among them some notabilities.

Then began one of those pointless social conversations so common in
American resorts where the would-be gilded attempt to rub off gilt from
those who have it in abundance. If Hurstwood had one leaning, it was
toward notabilities. He considered that, if anywhere, he belonged among
them. He was too proud to toady, too keen not to strictly observe the
plane he occupied when there were those present who did not appreciate
him, but, in situations like the present, where he could shine as a
gentleman and be received without equivocation as a friend and equal
among men of known ability, he was most delighted. It was on such
occasions, if ever, that he would "take something." When the social
flavour was strong enough he would even unbend to the extent of drinking
glass for glass with his associates, punctiliously observing his turn
to pay as if he were an outsider like the others. If he ever approached
intoxication--or rather that ruddy warmth and comfortableness which
precedes the more sloven state--it was when individuals such as these
were gathered about him, when he was one of a circle of chatting
celebrities. To-night, disturbed as was his state, he was rather
relieved to find company, and now that notabilities were gathered, he
laid aside his troubles for the nonce, and joined in right heartily.

It was not long before the imbibing began to tell. Stories began to crop
up--those ever-enduring, droll stories which form the major portion of
the conversation among American men under such circumstances.

Twelve o'clock arrived, the hour for closing, and with it the company
took leave. Hurstwood shook hands with them most cordially. He was very
roseate physically. He had arrived at that state where his mind,
though clear, was, nevertheless, warm in its fancies. He felt as if his
troubles were not very serious. Going into his office, he began to turn
over certain accounts, awaiting the departure of the bartenders and the
cashier, who soon left.

It was the manager's duty, as well as his custom, after all were gone
to see that everything was safely closed up for the night. As a rule,
no money except the cash taken in after banking hours was kept about
the place, and that was locked in the safe by the cashier, who, with the
owners, was joint keeper of the secret combination, but, nevertheless,
Hurstwood nightly took the precaution to try the cash drawers and the
safe in order to see that they were tightly closed. Then he would lock
his own little office and set the proper light burning near the safe,
after which he would take his departure.

Never in his experience had he found anything out of order, but
to-night, after shutting down his desk, he came out and tried the safe.
His way was to give a sharp pull. This time the door responded. He was
slightly surprised at that, and looking in found the money cases as left
for the day, apparently unprotected. His first thought was, of course,
to inspect the drawers and shut the door.

"I'll speak to Mayhew about this to-morrow," he thought.

The latter had certainly imagined upon going out a half-hour before
that he had turned the knob on the door so as to spring the lock. He had
never failed to do so before. But to-night Mayhew had other thoughts. He
had been revolving the problem of a business of his own.

"I'll look in here," thought the manager, pulling out the money
drawers. He did not know why he wished to look in there. It was quite a
superfluous action, which another time might not have happened at all.

As he did so, a layer of bills, in parcels of a thousand, such as banks
issue, caught his eye. He could not tell how much they represented, but
paused to view them. Then he pulled out the second of the cash drawers.
In that were the receipts of the day.

"I didn't know Fitzgerald and Moy ever left any money this way," his
mind said to itself. "They must have forgotten it."

He looked at the other drawer and paused again.

"Count them," said a voice in his ear.

He put his hand into the first of the boxes and lifted the stack,
letting the separate parcels fall. They were bills of fifty and one
hundred dollars done in packages of a thousand. He thought he counted
ten such.

"Why don't I shut the safe?" his mind said to itself, lingering. "What
makes me pause here?"

For answer there came the strangest words:

"Did you ever have ten thousand dollars in ready money?"

Lo, the manager remembered that he had never had so much. All his
property had been slowly accumulated, and now his wife owned that. He
was worth more than forty thousand, all told--but she would get that.

He puzzled as he thought of these things, then pushed in the drawers
and closed the door, pausing with his hand upon the knob, which might so
easily lock it all beyond temptation. Still he paused. Finally he went
to the windows and pulled down the curtains. Then he tried the door,
which he had previously locked. What was this thing, making him
suspicious? Why did he wish to move about so quietly. He came back to
the end of the counter as if to rest his arm and think. Then he went and
unlocked his little office door and turned on the light. He also opened
his desk, sitting down before it, only to think strange thoughts.

"The safe is open," said a voice. "There is just the least little crack
in it. The lock has not been sprung."

The manager floundered among a jumble of thoughts. Now all the
entanglement of the day came back. Also the thought that here was a
solution. That money would do it. If he had that and Carrie. He rose up
and stood stock-still, looking at the floor.

"What about it?" his mind asked, and for answer he put his hand slowly
up and scratched his head.

The manager was no fool to be led blindly away by such an errant
proposition as this, but his situation was peculiar. Wine was in his
veins. It had crept up into his head and given him a warm view of the
situation. It also coloured the possibilities of ten thousand for him.
He could see great opportunities with that. He could get Carrie. Oh,
yes, he could! He could get rid of his wife. That letter, too, was
waiting discussion to-morrow morning. He would not need to answer that.
He went back to the safe and put his hand on the knob. Then he pulled
the door open and took the drawer with the money quite out.

With it once out and before him, it seemed a foolish thing to think
about leaving it. Certainly it would. Why, he could live quietly with
Carrie for years.

Lord! what was that? For the first time he was tense, as if a stern hand
had been laid upon his shoulder. He looked fearfully around. Not a soul
was present. Not a sound. Some one was shuffling by on the sidewalk. He
took the box and the money and put it back in the safe. Then he partly
closed the door again.

To those who have never wavered in conscience, the predicament of the
individual whose mind is less strongly constituted and who trembles
in the balance between duty and desire is scarcely appreciable, unless
graphically portrayed. Those who have never heard that solemn voice of
the ghostly clock which ticks with awful distinctness, "thou shalt,"
"thou shalt not," "thou shalt," "thou shalt not," are in no position to
judge. Not alone in sensitive, highly organised natures is such a mental
conflict possible. The dullest specimen of humanity, when drawn
by desire toward evil, is recalled by a sense of right, which is
proportionate in power and strength to his evil tendency. We must
remember that it may not be a knowledge of right, for no knowledge of
right is predicated of the animal's instinctive recoil at evil. Men
are still led by instinct before they are regulated by knowledge. It
is instinct which recalls the criminal--it is instinct (where highly
organised reasoning is absent) which gives the criminal his feeling of
danger, his fear of wrong.

At every first adventure, then, into some untried evil, the mind wavers.
The clock of thought ticks out its wish and its denial. To those who
have never experienced such a mental dilemma, the following will appeal
on the simple ground of revelation.

When Hurstwood put the money back, his nature again resumed its ease and
daring. No one had observed him. He was quite alone. No one could tell
what he wished to do. He could work this thing out for himself.

The imbibation of the evening had not yet worn off. Moist as was his
brow, tremble as did his hand once after the nameless fright, he was
still flushed with the fumes of liquor. He scarcely noticed that the
time was passing. He went over his situation once again, his eye always
seeing the money in a lump, his mind always seeing what it would do. He
strolled into his little room, then to the door, then to the safe again.
He put his hand on the knob and opened it. There was the money! Surely
no harm could come from looking at it!

He took out the drawer again and lifted the bills. They were so smooth,
so compact, so portable. How little they made, after all. He decided he
would take them. Yes, he would. He would put them in his pocket. Then he
looked at that and saw they would not go there. His hand satchel! To be
sure, his hand satchel. They would go in that--all of it would. No one
would think anything of it either. He went into the little office and
took it from the shelf in the corner. Now he set it upon his desk and
went out toward the safe. For some reason he did not want to fill it out
in the big room. First he brought the bills and then the loose receipts
of the day. He would take it all. He put the empty drawers back and
pushed the iron door almost to, then stood beside it meditating.

The wavering of a mind under such circumstances is an almost
inexplicable thing, and yet it is absolutely true. Hurstwood could not
bring himself to act definitely. He wanted to think about it--to ponder
over it, to decide whether it were best. He was drawn by such a keen
desire for Carrie, driven by such a state of turmoil in his own affairs
that he thought constantly it would be best, and yet he wavered. He did
not know what evil might result from it to him--how soon he might come
to grief. The true ethics of the situation never once occurred to him,
and never would have, under any circumstances.

After he had all the money in the handbag, a revulsion of feeling seized
him. He would not do it--no! Think of what a scandal it would make. The
police! They would be after him. He would have to fly, and where? Oh,
the terror of being a fugitive from justice! He took out the two boxes
and put all the money back. In his excitement he forgot what he was
doing, and put the sums in the wrong boxes. As he pushed the door to,
he thought he remembered doing it wrong and opened the door again. There
were the two boxes mixed.

He took them out and straightened the matter, but now the terror had
gone. Why be afraid?

While the money was in his hand the lock clicked. It had sprung! Did
he do it? He grabbed at the knob and pulled vigorously. It had closed.
Heavens! he was in for it now, sure enough.

The moment he realised that the safe was locked for a surety, the sweat
burst out upon his brow and he trembled violently. He looked about him
and decided instantly. There was no delaying now.

"Supposing I do lay it on the top," he said, "and go away, they'll
know who took it. I'm the last to close up. Besides, other things will
happen."

At once he became the man of action.

"I must get out of this," he thought.

He hurried into his little room, took down his light overcoat and hat,
locked his desk, and grabbed the satchel. Then he turned out all but one
light and opened the door. He tried to put on his old assured air, but
it was almost gone. He was repenting rapidly.

"I wish I hadn't done that," he said. "That was a mistake."

He walked steadily down the street, greeting a night watchman whom
he knew who was trying doors. He must get out of the city, and that
quickly.

"I wonder how the trains run?" he thought.

Instantly he pulled out his watch and looked. It was nearly half-past
one.

At the first drugstore he stopped, seeing a long-distance telephone
booth inside. It was a famous drugstore, and contained one of the first
private telephone booths ever erected. "I want to use your 'phone a
minute," he said to the night clerk.

The latter nodded.

"Give me 1643," he called to Central, after looking up the Michigan
Central depot number. Soon he got the ticket agent.

"How do the trains leave here for Detroit?" he asked.

The man explained the hours.

"No more to-night?"

"Nothing with a sleeper. Yes, there is, too," he added. "There is a mail
train out of here at three o'clock."

"All right," said Hurstwood. "What time does that get to Detroit?"

He was thinking if he could only get there and cross the river into
Canada, he could take his time about getting to Montreal. He was
relieved to learn that it would reach there by noon.

"Mayhew won't open the safe till nine," he thought. "They can't get on
my track before noon."

Then he thought of Carrie. With what speed must he get her, if he got
her at all. She would have to come along. He jumped into the nearest cab
standing by.

"To Ogden Place," he said sharply. "I'll give you a dollar more if you
make good time."

The cabby beat his horse into a sort of imitation gallop which was
fairly fast, however. On the way Hurstwood thought what to do. Reaching
the number, he hurried up the steps and did not spare the bell in waking
the servant.

"Is Mrs. Drouet in?" he asked.

"Yes," said the astonished girl.

"Tell her to dress and come to the door at once. Her husband is in the
hospital, injured, and wants to see her."

The servant girl hurried upstairs, convinced by the man's strained and
emphatic manner.

"What!" said Carrie, lighting the gas and searching for her clothes.

"Mr. Drouet is hurt and in the hospital. He wants to see you. The cab's
downstairs."

Carrie dressed very rapidly, and soon appeared below, forgetting
everything save the necessities.

"Drouet is hurt," said Hurstwood quickly. "He wants to see you. Come
quickly."

Carrie was so bewildered that she swallowed the whole story.

"Get in," said Hurstwood, helping her and jumping after.

The cabby began to turn the horse around. "Michigan Central depot," he
said, standing up and speaking so low that Carrie could not hear, "as
fast as you can go."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: We pick up with Hurstwood, back from his walk. He receives Carrie's letter and, surprisingly, he doesn't feel that bad. He figures she's probably just playing hard to get. Hurstwood thinks about going to see Mrs. Hurstwood's lawyers, but then decides not to. He wonders how he's going to try to win Carrie back. He indulges in a little retail therapy, buying some linens and ties, and then goes to hang out at the Palmer House . And who do you think he happens to see there? Drouet. Hurstwood watches him heading up the stairs with a key, and asks the desk clerk if Drouet is staying there alone. The clerk tells him yes , and this puts Hurstwood in a great mood: Drouet and Carrie must've had a fight. Hurstwood decides this is the perfect opportunity to go see Carrie at her apartment. He eats dinner, checks with the hotel clerk to make sure Drouet is still in his hotel room, and then takes a cab to see Carrie. When he arrives, the maid tells him that she's gone to Hooley's theater. He's about to go to the theater to find her, but then decides against it, figuring she might not be alone so the timing wouldn't be the best. So he returns to his office. A friend stops by to say hi. A few more of his friends stop in to chitchat, and before long, they bust out the booze. Hurstwood is eager to drown his sorrows, so he gladly partakes. By midnight , everyone begins to clear out except Hurstwood who needs to close up shop. Hurstwood has got a pretty strong buzz going: "He had arrived at that state where his mind, though clear, was, nevertheless, warm in its fancies" . Hurstwood starts closing up. One of the things he does every night before he leaves is check to make sure that the safe has been locked by the cashier . When Hurstwood pulls on the door of the safe he discovers that it isn't locked. His first impulse is to just check to make sure the money hasn't been touched and then close the door. But on second thought... There's a lot of money in there--like thousands of dollars. A "voice in his ear" tells Hurstwood to count it, so he does. Another voice asks Hurstwood why he doesn't just shut the safe already. Are you picturing a little angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other? We totally are. The devil voice answers back with "Did you ever have ten thousand dollars in ready money?" . Hurstwood thinks about how his wife is going to get all of his money in the divorce, but puts the money back. He is about to close the safe, but hesitates. He goes to the windows and pulls the curtains down, then double checks the doors to make sure they're locked. Looks like the devil might win this one. He goes to his office nearby to think . Unsurprisingly, he thinks about how the money could solve all his problems. He returns to the safe and takes the money out, but then puts it back in and almost closes the door. We're reminded that Hurstwood is still kind of drunk. He goes back to his office, then to the safe again to look at the money--the suspense is killing us. He goes and gets his "hand satchel," returns again to the safe, takes out the money and receipts, and again almost closes the safe. His mind is reeling as he's thinking about whether he should really do this or not. He puts all the money in the bag. But then he's stricken by the feeling that he just can't do it, as the thought of all the trouble he could get into with the law suddenly occurs to him. Hurstwood puts the money back into the drawers, but realizes he's arranged it in the drawers wrong. While he takes the money out to fix the problem, it crosses his mind again to take the money. While he's busy thinking it over, the safe clicks shut. Yup, definitely locked, he realizes as he desperately tries to open the safe. Uh-oh--he's in deep trouble now. Hurstwood goes into his office with the money, gets his coat and satchel, locks his desk and leaves the hotel. He goes into a drugstore and asks to use that fancy new invention called the phone booth . Hurstwood calls the train station to find out when the next train to Detroit is. Ultimately, he plans to go to Montreal, Canada. Suddenly Carrie pops into his head--he can't leave the country without her. Hurstwood jumps into a horse-drawn cab and takes it to Carrie's place. He bursts in and tells her that Drouet is injured, and that Carrie needs to come with Hurstwood to the hospital right now. Carrie throws some clothes on and jumps into the cab with Hurstwood... who tells the cabby to take them to the train station.


prompt:
Chapter: The cab had not travelled a short block before Carrie, settling herself
and thoroughly waking in the night atmosphere, asked:

"What's the matter with him? Is he hurt badly?"

"It isn't anything very serious," Hurstwood said solemnly. He was very
much disturbed over his own situation, and now that he had Carrie with
him, he only wanted to get safely out of reach of the law. Therefore he
was in no mood for anything save such words as would further his plans
distinctly.

Carrie did not forget that there was something to be settled between
her and Hurstwood, but the thought was ignored in her agitation. The one
thing was to finish this strange pilgrimage.

"Where is he?"

"Way out on the South Side," said Hurstwood. "We'll have to take the
train. It's the quickest way."

Carrie said nothing, and the horse gambolled on. The weirdness of the
city by night held her attention. She looked at the long receding rows
of lamps and studied the dark, silent houses.

"How did he hurt himself?" she asked--meaning what was the nature of his
injuries. Hurstwood understood. He hated to lie any more than necessary,
and yet he wanted no protests until he was out of danger.

"I don't know exactly," he said. "They just called me up to go and get
you and bring you out. They said there wasn't any need for alarm, but
that I shouldn't fail to bring you."

The man's serious manner convinced Carrie, and she became silent,
wondering.

Hurstwood examined his watch and urged the man to hurry. For one in so
delicate a position he was exceedingly cool. He could only think of how
needful it was to make the train and get quietly away. Carrie seemed
quite tractable, and he congratulated himself.

In due time they reached the depot, and after helping her out he handed
the man a five-dollar bill and hurried on.

"You wait here," he said to Carrie, when they reached the waiting-room,
"while I get the tickets."

"Have I much time to catch that train for Detroit?" he asked of the
agent.

"Four minutes," said the latter.

He paid for two tickets as circumspectly as possible.

"Is it far?" said Carrie, as he hurried back.

"Not very," he said. "We must get right in."

He pushed her before him at the gate, stood between her and the ticket
man while the latter punched their tickets, so that she could not see,
and then hurried after.

There was a long line of express and passenger cars and one or two
common day coaches. As the train had only recently been made up and few
passengers were expected, there were only one or two brakemen waiting.
They entered the rear day coach and sat down. Almost immediately, "All
aboard," resounded faintly from the outside, and the train started.

Carrie began to think it was a little bit curious--this going to a
depot--but said nothing. The whole incident was so out of the natural
that she did not attach too much weight to anything she imagined.

"How have you been?" asked Hurstwood gently, for he now breathed easier.

"Very well," said Carrie, who was so disturbed that she could not bring
a proper attitude to bear in the matter. She was still nervous to reach
Drouet and see what could be the matter. Hurstwood contemplated her and
felt this. He was not disturbed that it should be so. He did not trouble
because she was moved sympathetically in the matter. It was one of the
qualities in her which pleased him exceedingly. He was only thinking how
he should explain. Even this was not the most serious thing in his mind,
however. His own deed and present flight were the great shadows which
weighed upon him.

"What a fool I was to do that," he said over and over. "What a mistake!"

In his sober senses, he could scarcely realise that the thing had been
done. He could not begin to feel that he was a fugitive from justice.
He had often read of such things, and had thought they must be terrible,
but now that the thing was upon him, he only sat and looked into the
past. The future was a thing which concerned the Canadian line. He
wanted to reach that. As for the rest he surveyed his actions for the
evening, and counted them parts of a great mistake.

"Still," he said, "what could I have done?"

Then he would decide to make the best of it, and would begin to do so
by starting the whole inquiry over again. It was a fruitless, harassing
round, and left him in a queer mood to deal with the proposition he had
in the presence of Carrie.

The train clacked through the yards along the lake front, and ran rather
slowly to Twenty-fourth Street. Brakes and signals were visible without.
The engine gave short calls with its whistle, and frequently the bell
rang. Several brakemen came through, bearing lanterns. They were locking
the vestibules and putting the cars in order for a long run.

Presently it began to gain speed, and Carrie saw the silent streets
flashing by in rapid succession. The engine also began its whistle-calls
of four parts, with which it signalled danger to important crossings.

"Is it very far?" asked Carrie. "Not so very," said Hurstwood. He could
hardly repress a smile at her simplicity. He wanted to explain and
conciliate her, but he also wanted to be well out of Chicago.

In the lapse of another half-hour it became apparent to Carrie that it
was quite a run to wherever he was taking her, anyhow.

"Is it in Chicago?" she asked nervously. They were now far beyond the
city limits, and the train was scudding across the Indiana line at a
great rate.

"No," he said, "not where we are going."

There was something in the way he said this which aroused her in an
instant.

Her pretty brow began to contract.

"We are going to see Charlie, aren't we?" she asked.

He felt that the time was up. An explanation might as well come now as
later. Therefore, he shook his head in the most gentle negative.

"What?" said Carrie. She was nonplussed at the possibility of the errand
being different from what she had thought.

He only looked at her in the most kindly and mollifying way.

"Well, where are you taking me, then?" she asked, her voice showing the
quality of fright.

"I'll tell you, Carrie, if you'll be quiet. I want you to come along
with me to another city."

"Oh," said Carrie, her voice rising into a weak cry. "Let me off. I
don't want to go with you."

She was quite appalled at the man's audacity. This was something which
had never for a moment entered her head. Her one thought now was to get
off and away. If only the flying train could be stopped, the terrible
trick would be amended.

She arose and tried to push out into the aisle--anywhere. She knew she
had to do something. Hurstwood laid a gentle hand on her.

"Sit still, Carrie," he said. "Sit still. It won't do you any good
to get up here. Listen to me and I'll tell you what I'll do. Wait a
moment."

She was pushing at his knees, but he only pulled her back. No one saw
this little altercation, for very few persons were in the car, and they
were attempting to doze.

"I won't," said Carrie, who was, nevertheless, complying against her
will. "Let me go," she said. "How dare you?" and large tears began to
gather in her eyes.

Hurstwood was now fully aroused to the immediate difficulty, and ceased
to think of his own situation. He must do something with this girl, or
she would cause him trouble. He tried the art of persuasion with all his
powers aroused.

"Look here now, Carrie," he said, "you mustn't act this way. I didn't
mean to hurt your feelings. I don't want to do anything to make you feel
bad."

"Oh," sobbed Carrie, "oh, oh--oo--o!"

"There, there," he said, "you mustn't cry. Won't you listen to me?
Listen to me a minute, and I'll tell you why I came to do this thing. I
couldn't help it. I assure you I couldn't. Won't you listen?"

Her sobs disturbed him so that he was quite sure she did not hear a word
he said.

"Won't you listen?" he asked.

"No, I won't," said Carrie, flashing up. "I want you to take me out of
this, or I'll tell the conductor. I won't go with you. It's a shame,"
and again sobs of fright cut off her desire for expression.

Hurstwood listened with some astonishment. He felt that she had just
cause for feeling as she did, and yet he wished that he could straighten
this thing out quickly. Shortly the conductor would come through for the
tickets. He wanted no noise, no trouble of any kind. Before everything
he must make her quiet.

"You couldn't get out until the train stops again," said Hurstwood. "It
won't be very long until we reach another station. You can get out then
if you want to. I won't stop you. All I want you to do is to listen a
moment. You'll let me tell you, won't you?"

Carrie seemed not to listen. She only turned her head toward the window,
where outside all was black. The train was speeding with steady grace
across the fields and through patches of wood. The long whistles
came with sad, musical effect as the lonely woodland crossings were
approached.

Now the conductor entered the car and took up the one or two fares that
had been added at Chicago. He approached Hurstwood, who handed out the
tickets. Poised as she was to act, Carrie made no move. She did not look
about.

When the conductor had gone again Hurstwood felt relieved.

"You're angry at me because I deceived you," he said. "I didn't mean
to, Carrie. As I live I didn't. I couldn't help it. I couldn't stay away
from you after the first time I saw you."

He was ignoring the last deception as something that might go by the
board. He wanted to convince her that his wife could no longer be a
factor in their relationship. The money he had stolen he tried to shut
out of his mind.

"Don't talk to me," said Carrie, "I hate you. I want you to go away from
me. I am going to get out at the very next station."

She was in a tremble of excitement and opposition as she spoke.

"All right," he said, "but you'll hear me out, won't you? After all you
have said about loving me, you might hear me. I don't want to do you any
harm. I'll give you the money to go back with when you go. I merely want
to tell you, Carrie. You can't stop me from loving you, whatever you may
think."

He looked at her tenderly, but received no reply. "You think I have
deceived you badly, but I haven't. I didn't do it willingly. I'm through
with my wife. She hasn't any claims on me. I'll never see her any more.
That's why I'm here to-night. That's why I came and got you."

"You said Charlie was hurt," said Carrie, savagely. "You deceived me.
You've been deceiving me all the time, and now you want to force me to
run away with you."

She was so excited that she got up and tried to get by him again. He let
her, and she took another seat. Then he followed.

"Don't run away from me, Carrie," he said gently. "Let me explain. If
you will only hear me out you will see where I stand. I tell you my wife
is nothing to me. She hasn't been anything for years or I wouldn't have
ever come near you. I'm going to get a divorce just as soon as I can.
I'll never see her again. I'm done with all that. You're the only person
I want. If I can have you I won't ever think of another woman again."

Carrie heard all this in a very ruffled state. It sounded sincere
enough, however, despite all he had done. There was a tenseness in
Hurstwood's voice and manner which could but have some effect. She did
not want anything to do with him. He was married, he had deceived
her once, and now again, and she thought him terrible. Still there is
something in such daring and power which is fascinating to a woman,
especially if she can be made to feel that it is all prompted by love of
her.

The progress of the train was having a great deal to do with the
solution of this difficult situation. The speeding wheels and
disappearing country put Chicago farther and farther behind. Carrie
could feel that she was being borne a long distance off--that the engine
was making an almost through run to some distant city. She felt at times
as if she could cry out and make such a row that some one would come to
her aid; at other times it seemed an almost useless thing--so far was
she from any aid, no matter what she did. All the while Hurstwood was
endeavouring to formulate his plea in such a way that it would strike
home and bring her into sympathy with him.

"I was simply put where I didn't know what else to do."

Carrie deigned no suggestion of hearing this.

"When I say you wouldn't come unless I could marry you, I decided to put
everything else behind me and get you to come away with me. I'm going
off now to another city. I want to go to Montreal for a while, and then
anywhere you want to. We'll go and live in New York, if you say."

"I'll not have anything to do with you," said Carrie. "I want to get off
this train. Where are we going?"

"To Detroit," said Hurstwood.

"Oh!" said Carrie, in a burst of anguish. So distant and definite a
point seemed to increase the difficulty.

"Won't you come along with me?" he said, as if there was great danger
that she would not. "You won't need to do anything but travel with me.
I'll not trouble you in any way. You can see Montreal and New York, and
then if you don't want to stay you can go back. It will be better than
trying to go back to-night."

The first gleam of fairness shone in this proposition for Carrie. It
seemed a plausible thing to do, much as she feared his opposition if she
tried to carry it out. Montreal and New York! Even now she was speeding
toward those great, strange lands, and could see them if she liked. She
thought, but made no sign.

Hurstwood thought he saw a shade of compliance in this. He redoubled his
ardour.

"Think," he said, "what I've given up. I can't go back to Chicago any
more. I've got to stay away and live alone now, if you don't come with
me. You won't go back on me entirely, will you, Carrie?"

"I don't want you to talk to me," she answered forcibly.

Hurstwood kept silent for a while.

Carrie felt the train to be slowing down. It was the moment to act if
she was to act at all. She stirred uneasily.

"Don't think of going, Carrie," he said. "If you ever cared for me at
all, come along and let's start right. I'll do whatever you say. I'll
marry you, or I'll let you go back. Give yourself time to think it over.
I wouldn't have wanted you to come if I hadn't loved you. I tell you,
Carrie, before God, I can't live without you. I won't!"

There was the tensity of fierceness in the man's plea which appealed
deeply to her sympathies. It was a dissolving fire which was actuating
him now. He was loving her too intensely to think of giving her up in
this, his hour of distress. He clutched her hand nervously and pressed
it with all the force of an appeal.

The train was now all but stopped. It was running by some cars on a side
track. Everything outside was dark and dreary. A few sprinkles on the
window began to indicate that it was raining. Carrie hung in a quandary,
balancing between decision and helplessness. Now the train stopped, and
she was listening to his plea. The engine backed a few feet and all was
still.

She wavered, totally unable to make a move. Minute after minute slipped
by and still she hesitated, he pleading.

"Will you let me come back if I want to?" she asked, as if she now had
the upper hand and her companion was utterly subdued.

"Of course," he answered, "you know I will."

Carrie only listened as one who has granted a temporary amnesty. She
began to feel as if the matter were in her hands entirely.

The train was again in rapid motion. Hurstwood changed the subject.

"Aren't you very tired?" he said.

"No," she answered.

"Won't you let me get you a berth in the sleeper?"

She shook her head, though for all her distress and his trickery she was
beginning to notice what she had always felt--his thoughtfulness.

"Oh, yes," he said, "you will feel so much better."

She shook her head.

"Let me fix my coat for you, anyway," and he arose and arranged his
light coat in a comfortable position to receive her head.

"There," he said tenderly, "now see if you can't rest a little." He
could have kissed her for her compliance. He took his seat beside her
and thought a moment.

"I believe we're in for a heavy rain," he said.

"So it looks," said Carrie, whose nerves were quieting under the
sound of the rain drops, driven by a gusty wind, as the train swept on
frantically through the shadow to a newer world.

The fact that he had in a measure mollified Carrie was a source of
satisfaction to Hurstwood, but it furnished only the most temporary
relief. Now that her opposition was out of the way, he had all of his
time to devote to the consideration of his own error.

His condition was bitter in the extreme, for he did not want the
miserable sum he had stolen. He did not want to be a thief. That sum
or any other could never compensate for the state which he had thus
foolishly doffed. It could not give him back his host of friends, his
name, his house and family, nor Carrie, as he had meant to have her.
He was shut out from Chicago--from his easy, comfortable state. He
had robbed himself of his dignity, his merry meetings, his pleasant
evenings. And for what? The more he thought of it the more unbearable it
became. He began to think that he would try and restore himself to his
old state. He would return the miserable thievings of the night and
explain. Perhaps Moy would understand. Perhaps they would forgive him
and let him come back.

By noontime the train rolled into Detroit and he began to feel
exceedingly nervous. The police must be on his track by now. They had
probably notified all the police of the big cities, and detectives would
be watching for him. He remembered instances in which defaulters had
been captured. Consequently, he breathed heavily and paled somewhat. His
hands felt as if they must have something to do. He simulated interest
in several scenes without which he did not feel. He repeatedly beat his
foot upon the floor.

Carrie noticed his agitation, but said nothing. She had no idea what it
meant or that it was important.

He wondered now why he had not asked whether this train went on through
to Montreal or some Canadian point. Perhaps he could have saved time. He
jumped up and sought the conductor.

"Does any part of this train go to Montreal?" he asked.

"Yes, the next sleeper back does."

He would have asked more, but it did not seem wise, so he decided to
inquire at the depot.

The train rolled into the yards, clanging and puffing.

"I think we had better go right on through to Montreal," he said to
Carrie. "I'll see what the connections are when we get off."

He was exceedingly nervous, but did his best to put on a calm exterior.
Carrie only looked at him with large, troubled eyes. She was drifting
mentally, unable to say to herself what to do.

The train stopped and Hurstwood led the way out. He looked warily around
him, pretending to look after Carrie. Seeing nothing that indicated
studied observation, he made his way to the ticket office.

"The next train for Montreal leaves when?" he asked.

"In twenty minutes," said the man.

He bought two tickets and Pullman berths. Then he hastened back to
Carrie.

"We go right out again," he said, scarcely noticing that Carrie looked
tired and weary.

"I wish I was out of all this," she exclaimed gloomily.

"You'll feel better when we reach Montreal," he said.

"I haven't an earthly thing with me," said Carrie; "not even a
handkerchief."

"You can buy all you want as soon as you get there, dearest," he
explained. "You can call in a dressmaker."

Now the crier called the train ready and they got on. Hurstwood breathed
a sigh of relief as it started. There was a short run to the river, and
there they were ferried over. They had barely pulled the train off the
ferry-boat when he settled back with a sigh.

"It won't be so very long now," he said, remembering her in his relief.
"We get there the first thing in the morning."

Carrie scarcely deigned to reply.

"I'll see if there is a dining-car," he added. "I'm hungry."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Carrie pumps Hurstwood for details about Drouet's accident as they're in the cab, but he's pretty vague on these given that he made the story up. He tells her they're headed to the South Side and will have to take the train to get there. They get to the train station and Hurstwood leaves Carrie in the waiting room while he goes and buys two tickets to Detroit. They board the train and settle in. Hurstwood, who's growing more sober by the minute, thinks about what a drunken idiot he was to take the money. For her part, Carrie thinks about how long this trip is taking. She grows more suspicious, and finally comes out and asks Hurstwood if they're really going to see Drouet. He confesses that he lied about Drouet to get her on the train and tells her that he's taking her to a different city. Carrie freaks out and tells him she wants to get off the train immediately. She tries to get up, but he gently pushes her down; she's sobbing as he tries to tell her what's going on. She won't listen and threatens to tell the conductor. Hurstwood tells her she can get off at the next station if she wants, but to please listen to what he has to say first. Hurstwood tells her that it's over with his wife and that's why he came to get her. She's still steaming mad that he lied to her about Drouet being hurt and everything else though, so she gets up and moves to another seat. He follows. He's getting a divorce, he tells her. Plus, he loves her. Carrie softens, suddenly feeling flattered that he's doing all of this out of love for her. He tells her he wants to go to Montreal and after that they can go to NYC if she wants to; if she doesn't like it, she can go back. Carrie's intrigued by the prospect of checking out some cool new cities, but she's still pretty mad and tells Hurstwood not to talk to her. Hurstwood pleads with her to stay with him. She's not sure. He tries to charm her by offering to get her a sleeping car, and when she declines he lets her rest her head on his balled up coat. What a guy. She admits to herself that he is thoughtful. Hurstwood again thinks about how taking the money was a colossal mistake. He wishes he could give it all back and be forgiven, and worries that the police have begun looking for him. Next stop: Detroit. Hurstwood and Carrie get off, and he tells her they should get another train for Montreal so he buys the tickets. Carrie realizes she doesn't have so much as a toothbrush with her and gets depressed, but Hurstwood assures her he'll buy her whatever she wants once they get to Canada. They get on the train, Montreal-bound.