” Part 9 She was sitting brooding over her fire about ten o’clock that night when a sealed and registered envelope was brought up to her. Wood. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. “Life’s so queer,” she said, kneeling and looking into the flames. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. The next morning she went out with her post-office savings bank-book, and telegraphed for a warrant to draw out all the money she had in the world.
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