Oh, I ought to be independent, independent in all ways. With a little
money I could manage it.
There's a Mrs. Whitney, a widowed aunt of Meg's husband, who lives alone
in an apartment where a paying guest, if that guest were I, might be
received. Meg would raise an outcry, of course, but I can't keep on
visiting her indefinitely; and I should still be partly in her hands.
But I have no money. My allowance is the merest nothing, spent before it
comes. Why, I owe Meg's dressmaker, for the dress Cadge admired and for
others--Mrs. Edgar was cheaper; I must go back to her. And in the
Nicaragua, where Mrs. Whitney lives, the cost of--but it wouldn't be for
long.
If Ned doesn't--
I won't think about Strathay. I must wait. It's my fault that I haven't
plenty of money. I've been so unhappy that I haven't explained to Father
how my needs have increased, how my way of life has changed. But I'll
write to-night; he refuses me nothing. He must send me a good sum at once;
as much as he can raise.
Mrs. Whitney's a harmless tabby--a thin, ex-handsome creature struggling
to maintain appearances; but I can put up with her.
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