She is now a regular prostitute. She lives in a tiny apartment of one room, bath, and kitchenette, a cheerless place with a telephone which looks business-like. She helps in the office of the place and cares for some other apartments, and earns enough to pay her rent and a little more. The rest she earns immorally. “I was innocent,” she said, “until I was 18. I went on the streets for excitement and fun. People said and thought all sorts of things about me which were not true,—my family, the court people, and all. My mother would never have known about the baby if the State hadn’t blabbed. Why do they have to tell a person’s private affairs and sins? My mother had enough trouble without having mine thrust on her. I ought to bear my own troubles without breaking her heart. Social workers think they’re such saints. “Nowadays girls go wrong younger. Today there are girls on the Common at night, thirteen and fourteen, who know everything bad there is to know. I am not a café girl. You would be disgusted with the café girls. If the city really wants to stop this sort of thing why don’t they shut up the cafés? Some of those girls are awful; some of them are desperate. On the street few girls speak to men. It is the other way round. If a girl is alone on the streets at night the men know what she is there for. There is more money in New York than Boston. I’m not a real sporting girl. They have to be bad, that is willing to do anything a man wants. They get $25, whatever they want, if they are attractive enough, but a girl has to be bad all through to satisfy such men. I usually get $10, sometimes $5 if the man is nice but poor. No girl need go with men that make it worse. It’s bad enough. I never go with a man who has been drinking much and only with a certain kind of men.” As far as could be learned this type bears a resemblance to the kind of man who is the father of her child. She says she still loves him. She has seen him sometimes on the street. It is a temptation but she keeps away. “It makes me tremble and feel sick; besides I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing they took the child away. Oh, how I hate them all. It’s a fierce life. There are two kinds of prostitutes, the ones who would get out of the life any minute if they could earn a decent living any other way, and the ones who were born to the life. Silly fools! they wouldn’t be satisfied with anything else. (The feeble-minded?) Why do I live so if I hate it? What else can I do? I have no education; any work I can get is hard work and I am not strong. I worked for a family all summer as a second girl. My back ached all the time. A maid goes in the back door and out of the back door. In this life she can be comfortable, get plenty to eat, plenty of good clothes, and she is as good as the men with whom she goes.