been to New York many times before, but
the realization that I was in the big city alone, unanchored, afloat,
filled me with panic. I was like a young bird, featherless, naked,
trembling, knocked out of its nest before it could fly. Every sound,
every unknown shape was a monster cat waiting to devour me. I was
acutely aware of dangers lurking for young girls in big cities. For two
or three days I had all I could do to control myself and keep my nerve
steady.

I arrived on a cold, gray, cloudy morning; unaccustomed to reaching
destinies unmet; my heart torn and bleeding; nobody to turn to for help
and advice; no plan formed in my confused mind; afraid even to trust
myself to the care of a taxicab driver. For such a timid pilgrim in
quest of freedom, to start out in search of an address she treasures
because of the golden apple of immediate employment that it promises,
and to learn on arrival that the position already has been filled, is
terribly disheartening. To wake up the second morning in a two-dollar
hotel room, which she has locked and barred the night before with all
the foolish precautions of a young and amateurish traveler, to pay a
dollar for a usual breakfast served in her room and a dollar-and-a-half
for a luncheon of nothing but a simple soup and chicken-a-la-King, and
then to figure out on a piece of paper that at such a rate her fifty
dollars will last just about two weeks, is enough to make any young fool
of a girl wish she had been taught something else besides setting off
expensive gowns. I didn't know what I ought to do. I didn't know how to
begin. I was so self-conscious, at first, so fearful that my being at
that hotel, alone, unchaperoned, might be questioned and cause
unpleasant comment, that I stayed in my room as much as possible. When I
look back and see myself those first few days I have to smile out of
self-pity. If it hadn't been for my lacerated pride, for the memory of
Tom's arrogance and Edith's taunts, I might have persuaded myself to
give up my dangerous enterprise, but every time I rehearsed that scene
at the Homestead (and, imprisoned as I was, I rehearsed it frequently),
something flamed up in me higher and higher each time. I could not go
back with self-respect. It was impossible. I concluded that I might as
well get singed in New York, as bound in slavery by Tom and Edith.

As soon as I became fully convinced that my lot was cast, I ventured out
to look for cheaper accommodations.