This salute of his—actually the first she could remember—while it did not disturb her, began to lead her thoughts into new channels of speculation. On the floor, underneath the sixth row desks, was an ashtray with a small black dot of blood on its blunt round corner. How does one get work? She walked along the Strand and across Trafalgar Square, and by the Haymarket to Piccadilly, and so through dignified squares and palatial alleys to Oxford Street; and her mind was divided between a speculative treatment of employment on the one hand, and breezes—zephyr breezes—of the keenest appreciation for London, on the other.
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