I took my letter from the rack and read it while waiting for Mrs. Dodds, my landlady, to finish totting up a long row of figures. I liked going down to pay my weekly board. Mrs. Dodds’ office was cosy, she was kindly. She knew London like a book and could tell every one of her fifty lady-student boarders all they wanted to know about everything and every place in the world. “I won’t!”…

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Mrs. Radcliffe’s surgeon-cousin advised a surgical support in my shoe. “I will take her to my own shoe-man in Regent Street,” said Mrs. Radcliffe and off we went. My foot was very sore, very painful to the touch, for a long time after the operation. I said to the fitter, “Do not handle the shoe when it is on my foot, I will put it on and off myself.” It was a very swell…

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The doctor found my foot had a dislocated toe, a split bone—results of an old injury. His treatment made no improvement. “We will have to amputate that toe,” he said. “I do not care to do it, though, without the consent of your home people; your general condition is bad.” “To write home and wait an answer will take so long, do it this afternoon. I want to get back to school. Please do…

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