She trailed him to his apartment and a black door that read 727 in solemn gold-tone lettering. “Your teeth are chattering! I’ll make you some hot chocolate!” Cathy cried. Sadly, the Christmas break came to an end. Aside from some loose coin and a trunk key, there was nothing in the pockets: no mail, no letter of credit, not even a tailor's label. Men had tried to kiss her— unshaven derelicts, some of them terrible—but she had always managed to escape. She stumbled through a thorny copse, her slippers sliding on patches of sand that gave way to rock.
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