’ At last. Seven hundred forty-two dollars and eighty-one cents, the sum total of her money in the world that she hid in a filigreed cigar box shelved behind her schoolbooks. He beamed a little as she disappeared into the orchestra room, a cacophony of tuning instruments. Away up on the hillside was the little country railway station. Men and women are not established things; they’re experiments, all of them. This happened after he ate. “What do you mean, hanging round with my wife?” he answered fiercely. "Still," went on the manager, "they are slaves in a sense; they are bought and sold until their original indebtedness is paid.
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