There was Vicky Sinclair, to be sure, her sister next in age; but Vicky
was married to a man she knew nothing of, and she found herself shy.
Fought for! Blared across London in a paragraph--championed by a clown!
How was she to meet a Captain Sinclair? Her father, surely, was different.
She never doubted his love, nor that he would take her to his heart if she
asked to go there. But could she? It would have to be done by stealth; she
must go to the city, to his office--for her mother ruled in Great
Cumberland Place, and she could not go there. She hated secrets, and
couldn't pose as a culprit; so she delayed and delayed. It was a comfort
to her to know that he was at hand: meantime, she sought about for scope
to spread her wings.
For a fortnight she drank of the gales of liberty, filled her bosom with
beauty, and let art smooth out her brows. She listened to music, looked at
pictures, renewed her reader's ticket, and spent whole days browsing under
the Bloomsbury dome. Climbing the heights, she planned out schemes of
work, felt her critical faculties renewed, studied men and women, and
found her old pleasure in quiet chuckling over their shifts. But she had
to chuckle alone, for she never spoke to a soul.
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