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. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. I have a new cult to teach, a new enthusiasm. She meditated long and carefully upon her letter to her father before she wrote it, and gravely and deliberately again before she despatched it. She would be in the library, her favorite place, or on the bench by the colored glass window with her embroidery.
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