all your things. All the things you left at Stamford Hill.''
''I don''t want them,'' I said at once. ''Keep them, or throw ''em away: I don''t care.''
''There are letters, from your family! Your father came to London, looking for you. Even now, they send me letters, asking if I have heard ..."
My father! I had had a vision, on seeing Diana, of myself upon a silken bed. Now, more vividly, I saw my father, in the apron that fell to his boots; I saw my mother, and my brother,
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and Alice. I saw the sea. My eyes began to smart, as if there was salt in them.
''You can send me the letters,'' I said thickly: I thought, I''ll write, and tell them of Florence. And if they don''t care for it -well, at least they''ll know that I''m safe, and happy . . .
Now Kitty came nearer, and lowered her voice still further. There''s the money, too,'' she said. ''We have kept it all. Nan, there''s almost seven hundred pounds of yours!''
I shook my head: I had forgotten about the money. ''I have nothing to spend it on,'' I said simply. But even as I said it, I remembered Zena, whom I had robbed; and I thought again of Florence - I imagined her dropping seven hundred pounds into the charity boxes of East London, coin by coin.
Would that make her love me, more than Lilian?
''You can send me the money, too,'' I said to Kitty at last; and I told her my address, and she nodded, and said she''d remember.