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anxiety. She could
not form a plan. All she could think, over and over, was: What
shall I do? Where can I go? No answer to either question presented
itself.
    She kept walking.
    It eventually occurred to her that if
she did nothing but walk straight forward, Mr. Whitlatch would
speedily find her. In fact, it was a wonder he had not found her
already. The ostler would almost certainly recall Clarissa, and
probably the direction she had taken. Despair clutched
her.
    She paused at a crossing and glanced
about. The neighborhood to the right seemed quieter, and appeared
to contain respectable shops. She hastened toward the nearest of
these. Delicious warmth surrounded her the instant she crossed the
threshold, and a heavenly fragrance. Some of the fear lifted from
her like a weight she had been carrying. Just to be off the street
made her feel less exposed, less hunted.
    Clarissa sniffed the air
appreciatively. The shop was quite small, and dark when one entered
from daylight. She blinked as her eyes grew accustomed to the
dimness. Her feet sank into a lovely carpet, and a small fire
crackled cheerfully to one side. Behind a low counter, rows of
shelves held neatly arranged jars of what appeared to be leaves and
spices. She thought it was the loveliest shop she had ever
seen.
    Clarissa leaned over the counter and
studied the glass jars, trying to make out their contents. The
labels "Brown Rappee," "Macouba," and "Violet Strasbourg," although
perfectly legible, conveyed no information to her mind. A clerk
appeared from behind a green baize curtain and gawked rudely at
her. Feigning unconcern, Clarissa walked away to warm herself at
the fire. More of the mysterious jars were arranged on the
mantlepiece.
    There was only one other customer in
the shop, a gentleman. Although he wore simple broadcloth and
linen, Clarissa had never seen such perfectly-fitting,
beautifully-made clothes in her life. She could not help stealing a
glance at them out of the corner of her eye. One realized
immediately that such garments, although there was nothing
ostentatious about them, were extremely expensive. The gentleman
seemed to feel her gaze upon him, for he suddenly turned. One
elegant eyebrow lifted, and he raised a quizzing glass to his eye.
Mortified, Clarissa turned hastily back to study the jars on the
mantlepiece with an interest she was far from feeling.
    She heard a languid step approaching.
"May I assist you?"
    Clarissa looked up, hoping it was the
clerk who was addressing her. It was not. The elegant gentleman was
standing beside her, and he leaned uncomfortably close as he spoke.
"May I assist you?" he repeated, with what Clarissa thought a
peculiarly nasty smile. "I am considered something of an expert in
these matters, and you—forgive me—do not have the look of a
snuff-taker."
    She was in a tobacconist's shop!
Countrified she may be, but Clarissa was not entirely ignorant. She
knew a lady had no business visiting a tobacconist; not even a lady
who actually took snuff. Such shops were wholly the province of
men. No wonder the clerk had stared, rather than wait upon
her.
    Blushing for her error, Clarissa
uttered a strangled, "No, thank you!" and fled. She heard the man
calling after her as she darted out the door, but she did not stay
to listen. She knew whatever he was saying she would not like
hearing.
    Cold air struck her forcibly as she
exited the warm shop. The wind seemed to be picking up. Clarissa
shivered, and turned miserably to hurry on. So this was what life
was like for an unprotected female. What a dreadful lesson it was,
to be sure. She began to understand what the fox felt, driven from
its sanctuary and forced into headlong flight by the distant sound
of baying dogs.
    She walked for a timeless time,
chilled, dispirited, and frightened, now turning corners at random
in an effort to confuse anyone who might be following her. She was
half afraid that the gentleman from the tobacconist's shop might be
pursuing her as well as