“Have you anything of value, dear?” she said.

I shook my head. “I haven’t any money,” I answered. “I’ve come to London to get work.”

“Well, well,” she said. “We’ll see about that in the morning. Tell me your name and I’ll take you to bed.”

Annie Turner was the name I had assumed for my wanderings, and the lieutenant noted it with a smile. Now I had expected to be severely questioned. I had anticipated being faced with innumerable forms, interrogating me as to my family history, where I was born, how educated, what disease my parents had died from, and other intimate details. There was nothing like that at all. I was asked no questions as to character or past employment. I might have been a thief, or a drunkard⁠—it didn’t matter. I was homeless, destitute. That was enough. I appeared, a stranger out of the night, and the Salvation Army took me in.