"And there you're right, you may dipind, marm," observed Terence. Seven hundred forty-two dollars and eighty-one cents, the sum total of her money in the world that she hid in a filigreed cigar box shelved behind her schoolbooks. "It's Mrs. ‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait. What hotel should she go to? If she told a cabman to drive to an hotel, any hotel, what would he do—or say? He might drive to something dreadfully expensive, and not at all the quiet sort of thing she required. The door of cabin 2 was open.
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