XXXOn the third day of her search for work Anne was obliged to contend with discouragement. People wanted to know what you had been doing, and she didn’t know herself. She began to wonder whether she couldn’t make up something, but really when you came to look into it there was altogether too much to make up. If it had only been her name—if she could only produce one person who could speak for her—She thought of Miss Silver, at first to feel that she couldn’t ask her for a reference, but with each successive day to come nearer and nearer to trying her. “But she doesn’t really know anything about me.” And then, hard on that, “Nobody does—” The thought took her into a sort of giddy spin. For a moment she was all alone with no one to help her. No one who knew who she was or where she was. It
