Nobody remarked her; she was a tall girl for her age, and in her
sober dark dress, with her little bag, might be taken for a
tradesman's daughter going to school, even if anyone had been out who
had time to look at her. Trembling, she saw a cabman make a sign to
her, and stood waiting for him, jumped in as he opened his door, and
felt as if she had found a refuge for the time upon the dirty red
plush cushions and the straw. "To the Waterloo Station," said she,
with as much indifference and self-possession as she could manage.
The man touched his hat, and rattled off: he perhaps wondering if
this were a young runaway, and if he should get anything by telling
where she was gone; she working herself into a terrible fright for
fear he should be going to drive round and round London, get her into
some horrible den of iniquity, and murder her for the sake of her
money, her watch, and her clothes. Did not cabmen always do such
things? She had quite decided how she would call a policeman, and
either die like an Umfraville or offer a ransom of "untold gold," and
had gone through all possible catastrophes long before she found
herself really safe at the railway station, and the man letting her
out, and looking for his money.
The knowledge that all depended on herself, and that any signs of
alarm would bring on inquiry, made her able to speak and act so
reasonably, that she felt like one in a dream.
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