children, policemen—but mainly men, all hurrying in and out as if there were very important places waiting for them. The building itself was larger than any she had ever beheld and could barely have imagined; three Kenigh Halls could have fit below itscurved archways and domed ceiling. She craned her neck and stared, wondering at the tiny country life she had lived.
It was probably while she stood entranced that her purse was stolen.
She did not notice it until much later, when she had finally tired of wandering around and exhaustion had caught up with her, numbing her ability to take in more wonders. It was evening and she figured she had better find a place to stay, so her first thought was for a bite to eat and something hot to uplift her spirits. There were bakeries just outside the train station, bustling places as busy as the platforms themselves, and if it hadn’t been for her look of hunger the proprietor might have forever ignored her standing meekly there.
“Dundee cake, please,” she asked, thinking of Alan, A hard, heavy bundle was slapped into her hand.
“That’ll be tuppence.”
The fat woman had greasy, floury arms and reminded her a little of Dolly, except for the pock-marked face and impatience. Snow dug quickly through her skirts as a line formed behind her, and she suddenly realized the little purse was gone. All that was left was its ribbon handle with knife-cut ends. She fumbled some more in her larger bag for loose change, trying not to panic. A handful of coins slipped coldly into her palm, and she nearly burst with relief.
“Thank ’ee,” said the fat woman who was not Dolly, but before Snow could give her a proper “You’re welcome” she was already taking money from another customer, forgetting the girl before her.
Snow wandered away nibbling her cake, shocked that something so dreadful had occurred so quickly. She was under no illusion about her ignorance of the city and its people; she
had
figured, however, that she would be granted a little time to find her footing …. She clutched her bag to her and counted coins through the cloth.
Four shillings and tuppence
. Not enough for a night at an inn, much less renting a room, even if she knew where to go.
She tried to keep a “stiff upper lip” like the men in her Scottish novels, but finally she sank down on a bench and cried. Pigeons swept up around her and people rushed by like shadows.
When there were no more tears, she sat for a little longer, wishing for someone to help her, for guidance, for at least some idea of what to do.
When there were no more wishes, she rose and went out into the streets.
The city was enrapturing even through her sadness. Shiny cobblestones and golden reflections of gas lanterns glittered on the ground. Hundreds of people hurried wetly on errands or on their way home; the streets were far from deserted even at this late hour. Snow was easily coaxed into a dream state, already hungry again and still worn out from her escape. Shefell into sleepwalk step with the other pedestrians.
She passed under the windows of middle-class houses, having left the station district. In each home families were gathered, fires were stoked, and modest meals were prepared.
Surely happy and good people would willingly spare a scrap….
Snow thought vaguely about begging—
It’s not like my position doesn’t warrant it
—but she could not for the life of her think of what to say.
Tomorrow,
she promised herself,
if I fail to find employment
.
She was still stuck with the problem of the night and the cold, and sleep. Something, from a book or a story or a song, prompted her to begin looking down alleys. She had visions of hidden gardens or at least rubbish bins, maybe a dry stairwell to sleep on. Snow worked to convince herself not to fear strange people and city rats. This was easier than expected, as she was both exhausted and familiar with neither.
“I should like to see a nice, honest rat,” she chatted to
It was probably while she stood entranced that her purse was stolen.
She did not notice it until much later, when she had finally tired of wandering around and exhaustion had caught up with her, numbing her ability to take in more wonders. It was evening and she figured she had better find a place to stay, so her first thought was for a bite to eat and something hot to uplift her spirits. There were bakeries just outside the train station, bustling places as busy as the platforms themselves, and if it hadn’t been for her look of hunger the proprietor might have forever ignored her standing meekly there.
“Dundee cake, please,” she asked, thinking of Alan, A hard, heavy bundle was slapped into her hand.
“That’ll be tuppence.”
The fat woman had greasy, floury arms and reminded her a little of Dolly, except for the pock-marked face and impatience. Snow dug quickly through her skirts as a line formed behind her, and she suddenly realized the little purse was gone. All that was left was its ribbon handle with knife-cut ends. She fumbled some more in her larger bag for loose change, trying not to panic. A handful of coins slipped coldly into her palm, and she nearly burst with relief.
“Thank ’ee,” said the fat woman who was not Dolly, but before Snow could give her a proper “You’re welcome” she was already taking money from another customer, forgetting the girl before her.
Snow wandered away nibbling her cake, shocked that something so dreadful had occurred so quickly. She was under no illusion about her ignorance of the city and its people; she
had
figured, however, that she would be granted a little time to find her footing …. She clutched her bag to her and counted coins through the cloth.
Four shillings and tuppence
. Not enough for a night at an inn, much less renting a room, even if she knew where to go.
She tried to keep a “stiff upper lip” like the men in her Scottish novels, but finally she sank down on a bench and cried. Pigeons swept up around her and people rushed by like shadows.
When there were no more tears, she sat for a little longer, wishing for someone to help her, for guidance, for at least some idea of what to do.
When there were no more wishes, she rose and went out into the streets.
The city was enrapturing even through her sadness. Shiny cobblestones and golden reflections of gas lanterns glittered on the ground. Hundreds of people hurried wetly on errands or on their way home; the streets were far from deserted even at this late hour. Snow was easily coaxed into a dream state, already hungry again and still worn out from her escape. Shefell into sleepwalk step with the other pedestrians.
She passed under the windows of middle-class houses, having left the station district. In each home families were gathered, fires were stoked, and modest meals were prepared.
Surely happy and good people would willingly spare a scrap….
Snow thought vaguely about begging—
It’s not like my position doesn’t warrant it
—but she could not for the life of her think of what to say.
Tomorrow,
she promised herself,
if I fail to find employment
.
She was still stuck with the problem of the night and the cold, and sleep. Something, from a book or a story or a song, prompted her to begin looking down alleys. She had visions of hidden gardens or at least rubbish bins, maybe a dry stairwell to sleep on. Snow worked to convince herself not to fear strange people and city rats. This was easier than expected, as she was both exhausted and familiar with neither.
“I should like to see a nice, honest rat,” she chatted to
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