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. The room was dark and dusty. It’s all very fine and all that, Vee, this freedom, but it isn’t going to work. She was curious to know why he had boarded a dingy train instead of hailing a cab or his own private chauffeur like the others in expensive suits were doing. She went to a dramatic agent, and he turned out to be the one who had heard me sing in Paris. But one day he came to me. She was dressed for the street very much as her own maid was accustomed to dress, and there was a thick veil attached to her hat. I wonder what it was. “I did,” Anna answered.
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