And here would follow the inevitable reply, sharpened by bitter sarcasm: 

“But all this is for the poor man’s good ... you understand.  Men work better when they do not indulge in follies...  They will stop dancing next.  Girls in factories should not come to work all tired out on Monday morning.  They would find it much more restful to spend the time upon their knees.”

It was not what they said, but the tone of it, that made Fred Starratt shudder.  Their laughter was the terrible laughter of sober men without either the wit or circumstance to escape into a temperate gayety of spirit.  He still sat apart, as he had done at Fairview and again at Storch’s gatherings.  He had not been crushed sufficiently, even yet, to mingle either harsh mirth or scalding tears with theirs.  But he was feeling a passion for ugliness ... he wanted to drain the bitter circumstance of life to the lees.  He was seeking to harden himself to his task past all hope of reconsideration.

He liked especially to talk to the cripples of industry.  Here was a man who had been blinded by a hot iron bolt flung wide of its mark, and another with his hand gnawed clean by some gangrenous product of flesh made raw by the vibrations of a riveting machine.  And there were the men deafened by the incessant pounding of boiler shops, and one poor, silly, lone creature whose teeth had been slowly eaten away by the excessive sugar floating in the air of a candy factory.  Somehow this last man was the most pathetic of all.  In the final analysis, his calling seemed so trivial, and he a sacrifice upon the altar of a petty vanity.  Once he met a man weakened into consumption by the deadly heat of a bakeshop.  These men did not whine, but they exhibited their distortions with the malicious pride of beggars.  They demanded sympathy, and somehow their insistence had a humiliating quality.  He used to wonder, in rare moments of reflection, how long it would take for all this foul seepage to undermine the foundations of life.  Or would it merely corrode everything it came in contact with, very much as it had corroded him?  Only occasionally did he have an impulse to escape from the terrible estate to which his rancor had called him.  At such intervals he would turn his feet toward the old quarter of the town and stand before the garden that had once smiled upon his mother’s wooing, seeking to warm himself once again in the sunlight of traditions.  The fence, that had screened the garden from the nipping wind which swept in every afternoon from the bay, was rotting to a sure decline, disclosing great gaps, and the magnolia tree struggling bravely against odds to its appointed blossoming.  But it was growing blackened and distorted.  Some day, he thought, it would wither utterly...  He always turned away from this familiar scene with the profound melancholy springing from the realization that the past was a pale corpse lighted by the tapers of feeble memory.