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She went up-stairs and hesitated between four doors with ground-glass panes, each of which professed “The Women’s Bond of Freedom” in neat black letters. She worried for Cathy, working double shifts at the nearby family restaurant to help make ends meet. Missy looked like a troll with lipstick on. She had arranged for a supper of tea, a boiled egg, and some tinned peaches. I didn’t think—I don’t know what I thought. CHAPTER VIII. Suddenly, she heard the crunch of new feet on the gravel. She met the keen grey eyes of a clean-shaven man, between forty and fifty, quietly dressed in professional attire. .
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