had given her. Six letters had gone out so far. She had yet to receive a reply, though that didn’t bother her. She knew Olivia often moved from place to place and perhaps the letters simply had not reached her. At first Delia hadn’t been sure what to say. Describing the strike to one who was not there to see it seemed almost more difficult than being on strike itself. It was fun, of course, to write about the way the girls had all poured out of the factories all at once, stopping traffic on the street. And she knew Olivia would amused by her stories of the ladies who could weep so easily over low wages but sit dry eyed as she talked about high rents. Otherevents, however, caused Delia to put her pen down and bury her head in her hands in frustration. Olivia had often talked about the general strike as if once the girls had all walked out together the world would be a different place. And for a while that had seemed true. But, what, after all, had changed? The bosses might sign contracts with the union they were still bosses just like the landlords still collected the rent. Delia gazed out the window, watching people tramp by. It had just started to snow again. Everyone clutched their bundles and hunkered against the thick flurries, not lifting their eyes to meet hers though she sat only a foot away. Where was this freedom she had been looking for all her