Anna watched her with curious eyes. Suppose—suppose a girl did want to start in life, start in life for herself—” She looked him frankly in the eyes. "Whose house do you want, master?" said the man, touching his hat. She spoke readily enough, but there was a new timidity in her manner. It was a serene and charming evening, and twilight was gently stealing over the face of the country. The program was to include a Bach cantata, her favorite piece from Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade, and for the first time ever, a student composition, a Concerto, by a precociously talented fellow student named Martin Chen. At last, after a long rumbling journey in a stuffy windowless van, she reached Canongate Prison—for Holloway had its quota already. But anything is better than this. But the possible attitude of her father she had still to face. "Devilish nice ham you've got here!—capital pie!—and, as I live, a flask of excellent canary. I meant mischief.
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