A girl who could sit by the hour watching ants and spiders and bees, who could quote poems by the yard, who loved to write letters and could lose herself to the world any time in a new book, was not a difficult guest to entertain.

She could easily find amusement for herself even in the top flat of a New York apartment house.

So Joyce went on with her painting with a care-free mind.
Meanwhile Mary was slipping into her travelling suit, hurrying on hat and gloves and furs, and with her heart beating loud at her own daring, boldly stepping out into the strange streets by herself.

It was easy to find the corner where they had taken the car the night before.

Only one block to the right and then one down towards a certain building whose mammoth sign served her as a landmark.