She had never had a real doll. Footman or some such. She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets. ” “A—what?” Anna asked. It had been brighter than the rest, for dawn light had come in through high unshuttered casements above the bookshelves. That same adventurousness that had already buoyed her through crises that would have overwhelmed any normally feminine girl with shame and horror now became uppermost again.
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