She opened it and drew out a letter, and folded within it were the notes she had sent off to Ramage that day. Moored to the steps, several wherries were dancing in the rushing current, as if impatient of restraint. She had one idea, she found, very clear in her mind—that she would get a Research Scholarship, and so contrive another year in the laboratory. She had never had a pet, never had a real doll. She was perfectly aware that the boy had gotten some sort of bug in his craw over her despite her sloppy, strange appearance. “Don’t know me, eh? I like that. "Oh gracious! he's lost. Sheppard. The one profession, the one decent profession, I mean, for a woman—except the stage— is teaching, and there we trample on one another.
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