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NUCLEAR REACTOR
PHYSICS AND
ENGINEERING
NUCLEAR REACTOR
PHYSICS AND
ENGINEERING
John C. Lee
University of Michigan
Ann Arbor, Michigan
This edition first published 2020
© 2020 John Wiley & Sons, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any
form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, except as permitted by law. Advice
on how to obtain permission to reuse material from this title is available at http://www.wiley.com/go/permissions.
The right of John C. Lee to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with law.
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10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
CONTENTS
Preface xiv
Problems . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 540
References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 608
The book has been developed to introduce undergraduate and graduate students in
nuclear engineering, as well as practicing engineers, to basic concepts of nuclear
reactor physics and applications of the concepts to the analysis, design, control,
and operation of nuclear reactors. The basic concepts are discussed and the
associated mathematical formulations presented with the understanding that the
reader has solid background in differential equations and linear algebra. A focus
is placed on the use of neutron diffusion theory, with a minimum use of the
neutron transport equation, for the development of techniques for lattice physics
and global reactor system studies. When the neutron transport equation is used,
effort is made to stay with one-dimensional forms of the Boltzmann equation
and Legendre polynomials, without invoking the full-blown three-dimensional
Boltzmann equation and spherical harmonics. Recent developments in numerical
algorithms, including the Krylov subspace method, and the MATLAB software,
including the Simulink toolbox, are discussed for efficient studies of steady-state
and transient rector configurations. In addition, nuclear fuel cycle and associated
economics analysis are presented, together with the application of modern control
theory to reactor operation. A self-contained derivation of fluid conservation
equations is presented, together with relevant examples, so that the material could
xiv
PREFACE xv
September 2019
John C. Lee
Ann Arbor, Michigan
PERMISSIONS AND COPYRIGHTS
Many figures and tables in this book have been reproduced from copyrighted
sources. Permission from the publishers and authors for the use of the material is
gratefully acknowledged. Some of the sources are directly identified in captions
and footnotes, while many others are cited by alphanumeric references. Citations
for these sources are listed below:
Convective Boiling and Condensation, J.G. Collier
Copyright © 1972 by McGraw-Hill. Figure 13.17.
Nuclear Reactor Kinetics, 2nd edition, M. Ash
Copyright © 1979 by McGraw-Hill. Figure 8.15.
Mathematical Methods for Physicist: A Comprehensive Guide, 7th ed., G.B.
Arfken, J.J. Weber, and F.E. Harris
Copyright © 2013 by Academic Press. Figures C.1, C.2, C.3, C.4.
Nuclear Science and Engineering
Copyright ©1956, 1957, 1980, 1982, 1989, 1993, 2015, by Taylor & Francis
Group, LLC, 530 Walnut Street, Suite 850, Philadelphia, PA 19106. Figures 9.8,
10.5, 16.5, 16.6, 16.14, 16.15, 16.16, 16.19, 16.20, 16.23.
Nuclear Technology
Copyright ©1978 by Taylor & Francis Group, LLC, 530 Walnut Street, Suite 850,
Philadelphia, PA 19106. Figures 10.3, 10.4.
xvi
PERMISSIONS AND COPYRIGHTS xvii
A number of figures and a table were also obtained from publications of various
US government agencies and laboratories and other open-source publications:
Figures 1.1, 1.2, 1.3, 1.4, 1.6, 1.7, 1.8, 1.9, 1.10, 1.11, 1.12, 1.13, 1.14, 1.15, 1.16,
1.17,1.18, 1.19, 11.8, 13.10, 13.26, 14.4, 16.11, Table 12.5.
List of Tables
xviii
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passed away, with other beautiful things, in the numbing
surroundings of a fashionable life.
At last the carriage stopped at the entrance of a dingy street in a
region where "apartments" looked out from almost every window.
The lady would not suffer her new friends to take her to her own
door, and they possessed sufficient refinement of feeling to refrain
from pressing the point. She seemed even to shrink from the
prospect of any further acquaintance.
"We live in different worlds," she said with a sad smile when Adèle,
in her girlish enthusiasm, pressed her to allow them at least to
inquire after her. For Adèle was almost as much in love as her
cousin, certainly more gushingly so; but there was no possibility of
resisting the quiet firmness with which all efforts after further
intimacy were set aside by the lady they had helped.
With warm thanks she bade them farewell, but they both noticed,
with youth's sympathetic insight, that her eyelids drooped as though
she had been weary, and her lips slightly quivered before she turned
away.
Adèle's eyes filled with tears, and Arthur had to swallow a most
uncomfortable lump that seemed to impede his utterance. Then the
cousins became more sympathetic than they had ever been before
in discussing their adventure and forming theory after theory about
the mysterious stranger.
But Adèle was the talker, Arthur the listener, and perhaps his cousin's
conversation had never before been so much to his mind.
CHAPTER III.
Choking back the tears that seemed as if they would well forth from
a fountain that had long been sealed, Margaret Grey turned from her
companions of an hour to go home. To a very desolate home in
truth. Walled in and bricked out from the fair sights and sounds of
Nature, even the sunbeams as they touched it seemed only to reveal
its dinginess.
But four walls cannot make a home, any more than a casket can
enrich its jewelled contents. The most desolate exterior may be
endeared by what it holds. It might be so with Margaret's home, yet
no light came into her pale face as she caught sight of her dwelling.
For a moment she even hesitated—it seemed bitter to meet its dull
blankness—only a moment; then with a half smile at her own
weakness she walked languidly up a few dirty steps and rang the
bell.
It was answered by a servant in keeping with the steps, and passing
her by, Margaret went into her rooms. They consisted of a bed- and
sitting-room, separated by folding doors. The sitting-room was very
much what the exterior of the house had promised—very dull, very
shabby. A cracked mirror was over the chimney-piece, its frame
carefully veiled by yellow muslin that had lost its primal brightness. A
chandelier in the centre of the room was also enveloped with the
same dingy covering. A few shells and gay china ornaments were
scattered about on unsteady stands. On a table beside the window
was a group of dusty-looking paper flowers.
Tea was laid, the one cup and saucer telling their pathetic tale of a
lonely life. Margaret had left her lodgings that morning, desperate
with the feeling that either her eyes and her senses must have some
relief or her mind must give way. When she returned and looked
round her once more, she began to fear that her experiment had
been worse than useless. The force of contrast had increased the
bitterness of her lot.
She sank wearily into a stiff pretence of an arm-chair, and began
again thinking out the problem that beauty and dreariness alike
presented to her mind—the uncertain future. And then came over
her like a flood the vision of days and years without hope, without
joy. Burying her face in her hands, she gave way for a few moments
to unrestrained weeping. It was an unwonted exercise, for Margaret
was brave, and none of the last and deepest bitterness, that of
remorse, cast its shadow on her retrospect of the past. Thoughtless
she might have been, sinning she was not: of this thing the secret
court of her inner consciousness, so pitiless to the true offender, had
freely acquitted her.
It would be a long story to tell what it was that overcame Margaret
Grey till she sobbed out her sadness alone in the stillness of the May
evening. Partly, perhaps, the squalor of her present surroundings, for
the beautiful face and form encased a soul attuned to highest
harmonies; partly the sweet womanly sympathy, which she had
looked upon only and then put resolutely away from her; partly the
daily pinpricks of disappointment and repulse that she had
encountered in prosecuting the business which had led her to
London. For, like a multitude of helpless women, Margaret was on
the look-out for employment.
She had one little girl, a child about six years of age. With such a
sweet tie children-lovers might wonder at her utter desolation.
Strange to say, this tie, so sweet to many, was to her more of a care
than a pleasure. The future of her little one weighed heavily on her
mind.
In the lonely seaside village where she had left her it would be
scarcely possible to educate her to fill the position that might be
hers in the future. Margaret's scanty means did not allow her to
think of a residence in town, or of the expenses of a school
education for her daughter, unless, indeed, she could earn the
necessary money.
Hence her visit to London. She had been well educated herself; of
course her first thought was that by educating others she could pay
for the education of her child. If she had loved her little one very
much, perhaps she would have judged differently. She might have
thought it better to make a home for her child in any spot, however
lonely, feeling that the lack of some accomplishment would be well
compensated by the refining influence of a mother's constant love
and care.
But Margaret did not love her child so deeply as to find her presence
a sweet necessity. There was a cloud over her motherhood, which
robbed it of some of its fair charm. Duty to her child, not pleasure in
her, was her one idea of the tie that alone, at this period of her
history, bound her to life. It was this made her anxiety that,
whatever her own lot might be, Laura should have every advantage
in the way of education and training. And with the anxiety came the
need for exertion. Up to the moment when the child's growth and
development made the mother think of that bugbear of mothers—
her education—Margaret had not been troubled with any money
difficulties. She had lived in her retirement, the one trouble of her
life wrapping her in its gloomy folds, but with no care for the
provision of herself and her child in the future. Suddenly,
inexplicably, one source of income had failed. Margaret had not been
accustomed to trouble herself about money: the sufficient came to
her—that was all she required to know—and this poverty was a new
and dreadful thing which she found it very difficult to realize.
She tried to fathom the mystery, but it eluded her; only this
remained as a hard fact: eighty pounds a year was all she received
or seemed likely to receive, and Laura had to be educated.
The spirit of self-sacrifice is strong in some women; it was very
strong in Margaret. She had loved her solitude by the great sea, and
had succeeded in making it almost pleasant. There she pondered
and wept and hoped; there, if anywhere, she thought that her trial
must end. She would not enter the great world, to be swamped and
lost in its multitude. Hiding her loss where none could know and
none would blame, she would live in the midst of a savage loneliness
which seemed almost sympathetic to her mood.
This suited her, but would it do for Laura? Was she a fit companion
for her child, already dreamy and imaginative beyond her years? No,
Margaret told herself; and, leaving the little one in the care of the
woman from whom she hired their little cottage, she went to London
alone, to try and find some occupation for herself.
She had been directed to Islington as a cheap neighborhood; and
there she had stayed in a wretched lodging-house for about three
weeks—three ages to poor Margaret, filled with dismal memories of
humiliation and disappointment. She was reviewing it all that
evening—the rudeness, the repulses, the cruel cross-examinations;
for with these came the fresher scenes which that day had brought
—the chivalrous admiration that had shone out of Arthur's young
eyes, the gentle, womanly tenderness of Adèle.
Employers—so it seemed to poor Margaret; they were a very new
class to her—were cast in a different mould. It was their duty to ask
disagreeable questions and to probe unhealed wounds; it was their
duty to be stiff and cross, and not at all impressed with the outward
advantages which Margaret knew she possessed. It seemed very
hopeless, but she felt it necessary to persevere, at least for a little
while longer. The thought aroused her. She raised her head, and
became suddenly conscious of the fact of hunger. She had not eaten
a morsel since breakfast. No wonder, she thought, that faintness had
overpowered her. So she went into her bedroom and washed away
the traces of tears, that the dirty maid-of-all-work might not read her
weakness, then rang the bell to order an egg or something a little
more substantial than usual for her tea.
The girl came in, holding out a card that had not been improved, in
point of coloring, by its transit through her fingers. She informed
Margaret that a lady had left it half an hour ago with a message.
The message, not very lucidly delivered, was to the effect that the
lady whose name appeared in minute letters on the card would, in
all probability, call again in the course of the evening.
Poor Margaret! she looked at the card. "Mrs. Augustus Brown." It
had not a very encouraging sound, but it might mean business, and
business meant provision for Laura's needs. But the thought of the
impending interview had robbed her of all appetite; so, after hastily
swallowing a cup of tea with a dry biscuit, she again rang the bell,
had the tea-apparatus cleared away, and then sat by the window
trying to read.
The apparition of a yellow chariot which seemed to fill the narrow
street interrupted her, and before many minutes a thundering rap at
the door made her aware of the fact that the dreaded visitor was at
hand. Margaret's cheek burned. For one moment she longed
desperately for a refuge where she could hide her head from these
intrusions, then she remembered that she had invited them, and
strove to brace her nerves to endurance. When, therefore, the door
was thrown open to its fullest extent by the servant, who, never
having seen so grand a person in her life as Mrs. Augustus Brown,
thought it necessary to give her plenty of room, Margaret was
herself again—the heightened color the struggle had called forth
alone testifying to her recent emotion.
Mrs. Augustus Brown was a little round individual, almost as broad
as she was long, decked out in flounces and laces and ribbons: it
was one of the chief trials of her life that none of these things made
her look important. Mrs. Augustus Brown was governess-hunting, for
she possessed no less than seven small likenesses of herself, who
began to be unruly, and to require, as she would have expressed it,
a stricter hand over them.
And this governess-hunting was by no means an uncongenial
occupation to Mrs. Brown. It could not but be pleasing, especially as
the yellow chariot and its attendant luxuries were of comparatively
recent origin, to dash up to registry-offices and through quiet
streets, and to watch the effect produced on the untutored minds of
inferior persons by her brilliant tout ensemble. But as yet she had
not suited herself. In a governess, as she said, "tong" was essential;
her children would have to be brought up suitably, that they might
adorn the position Providence had evidently prepared for them, and
"tong" seemed to be a rare article in the market of female labor.
On the previous day Mrs. Augustus had dilated very largely upon this
point at a registry-office. She had been directed, in consequence, to
Mrs. Grey—a prize, as she was assured, in point of appearance and
manner. Curiosity was strong in Mrs. Brown. Certain allusions and
hints about Mrs. Grey's antecedents attracted her, and she lost no
time in looking her up; hence the apparition of the yellow chariot.
But Mrs. Augustus Brown has been left in the doorway to introduce
herself to Mrs. Grey. As she entered Margaret rose, with the true
instinct of a lady, and went forward to meet her, with a bow to which
her visitor did not deign to respond.
Mrs. Augustus Brown flattered herself that she had tact enough to
put people in their own places and keep them there—a notable piece
of wisdom, truly; the only difficulty being as to certain doubts about
what is the "own place." Were those rightly solved, perhaps a few
fine ladies would be slightly astonished by finding a level at some
unexpected layer of the social crust.
It was not Mrs. Brown's way to trouble herself with doubts. She
waddled across the room with great satisfaction to herself, but in a
manner that to the uninitiated could hardly have been called
dignified, sank down on a chair which directly faced Margaret, and
began divesting herself quietly of some of her wraps.
Never to appear too eager with any of these people was, in the code
of Mrs. Augustus, an essential point in their management. When this
business had been performed, and she had settled herself as
comfortably as might be in a not very luxurious arm-chair, Mrs.
Brown felt for a pair of gold-rimmed eye-glasses, adjusted them and
looked Margaret over from head to foot. "Bless me, how handsome!"
was her mental ejaculation: "my word for it, she's no good."
It was not wonderful that this coarse mind found it difficult to
understand the strange anomaly, for Margaret was one of those
rarely beautiful beings who seem only made for the tenderest
handling. Her face might have been a poet's ideal, for the traces of
suffering and conflict it only too plainly revealed had removed it far
from the meaningless glory of mere form and coloring; and yet she
was too young perhaps for these to have bereft her of any charm;
they rather endowed her pale fair beauty with a certain refinement,
an appealing pathos, which spoke powerfully to the imagination.
She possessed a form, too, whose every line was perfect, well
developed, yet fragile—womanly, yet full of grace. And the deep
crimson which Mrs. Brown's studied rudeness had called to her face
heightened the effect of her beauty.
She sat before her visitor, her eyes cast down, her hands crossed in
her lap, like a fair Greek slave in the barbarian's market-place,
waiting for the decree of fate.
It was a relief when Mrs. Augustus Brown began to give her
attention to the ponderous carriage-bag in her hand. Some of its
fastenings, being the latest patents and the height of convenience,
were difficult to manage.
"Your name," she said, hunting for a letter—"ah, here it is!—Mrs.
Grey."
Margaret bowed, shivering slightly. That fatal emphasis. This was the
way in which the inquisitions generally began.
Mrs. Augustus here coughed slightly, and looked over her gold-
rimmed spectacles in a way intended to be severe. Alas! how we
deceive ourselves! The look was only comic. "A married woman, I
presume?"
Margaret bowed again.
Here Mrs. Brown consulted a set of ivory tablets: "With one little girl,
I am told, and small income, anxious to make enough for her
education. Is this correct?"
"Perfectly so, madam."
"A very laudable object: then, Mrs. Grey, you are, I presume, a
widow?"
There was a moment's hesitation. Margaret pressed her hand to her
side as if she were in pain, and Mrs. Augustus eyed her suspiciously:
"My question, Mrs. Grey, is a simple one."
"And my answer, madam, can be equally simple. I am not a widow."
"Not a widow!" Mrs. Brown drew back her chair and took another
long look—one that expressed incredulous horror. "Not a widow! And
pray, Mrs. Grey, where is your husband?"
In spite of herself, Margaret smiled feebly, but the smile was a
nervous one. She looked up and shook her head: "I am sorry to say,
madam, that I cannot tell."
"Then," and Mrs. Brown again receded, as if to put as much space
as possible between herself and this naughty person—"then, Mrs.
Grey, you are separated from your husband?"
"I am."
The answer was spoken in a low, clear voice, very calmly, but with a
certain intonation of sadness that would have struck upon a more
sensitive ear. To Mrs. Augustus Brown this very quietness of
demeanor was in the highest degree brazen. She fluttered her fan,
drew herself up to her full height, and looked virtuous as a Roman
matron (in her own opinion, be it said parenthetically).
"You seem strangely forgetful, Mrs. Grey, of the importance of the
position which you seek to fill in my household. With the utmost
coolness you describe yourself as a woman living separated from her
husband. Goodness knows why. For all I can tell, you may have done
something very wrong." Here Mrs. Brown coughed and hid an
imaginary blush behind her fan. "And yet," she continued, when the
blush had been given time to fade, "you wish to take the entire
charge of little innocents, the eldest of whom is only ten, and seven
of them. I had my children so quick." Here Mrs. Brown lost her
thread. To mothers of large families these reminiscences are always
bewildering.
Margaret's eyes were looking very weary; she filled up the pause:
"Perhaps it would be better then to inquire no farther. From what
you say I fear that I shall scarcely suit you." She rose as she spoke.
Mrs. Brown did not take the hint; she remained where she was,
rooted to the place by sheer astonishment. For a young woman to
make so light of such a position as that of governess in her family
was an unheard-of thing. But Mrs. Grey rose in her estimation from
that moment. Then she was curious. "Sit down again, my dear," she
said in a manner that was intended to be gracious. "Mrs. Townley
spoke highly of you, and you certainly look a respectable person. I'm
not one always to blame my own sex. I believe in these affairs the
men are very often in fault. You may not be aware that Mr. Augustus
Brown and myself consider salary no object, and masters for every
branch. Rudiments and style, Mrs. Grey, and of course character
with children, you understand. If it were as my confidential maid,
now, I might not be so particular; but, unfortunately, the young
person I have I brought from Paris, and can't get rid of her under
three months. Not half so handy as I was given to understand."
She fluttered her fan again, and waited for an answer. Margaret
hesitated. Had she consulted her own inclinations she would have
refused decidedly to have anything further to do with this vulgar
woman. Already she felt by anticipation what the yoke of servitude
in such a house as hers would be; but Laura—the high salary. The
servitude, though bitter, might be shortened. It ended in a
compromise. "Will you be kind enough to allow me a day or two's
delay?" she asked. "I have friends who will certainly not refuse to
give me the necessary references; but I have not seen many of
them for some time, and they do not know of my present position."
Mrs. Augustus Brown got up, her dignity gone for the time in her
anxiety to make this striking-looking person one of her household.
"Yes, yes," she said, "that's the best plan; I'm sick of looking up
governesses—one more pasty-looking and unstylish than the other—
and I fancy you'll suit. Let me hear soon, for the children get more
headstrong every day. I'm too gentle with them. And then so much
in society. Why, we have three engagements of an evening
sometimes, turning night into day, I say. And the servants can no
more manage them than fly. I shall lose my health, as I tell Mr.
Brown, if I'm referred to every hour of the day by servants and
children. Too great a strain, Mrs. Grey. Well, good-bye, my dear."
She waddled off to the yellow chariot, and Margaret was left alone—
headstrong children, references, explanations, pictures and
unexpected kindness making one great riot in her brain. She went to
bed early that night, and the events of the day grouped themselves
together into fantastic dreams.
In the brain of Mrs. Augustus Brown one thought was pre-eminent;
it haunted her among the cream-colored cushions of the yellow
chariot, was present in the drawing-room, slightly interfering with
her mild contemplation of the sleeping face of a sandy-haired
individual on the sofa; it followed her even to the marital couch,
mingling with her dreams.
"She's mighty handsome: I hope to goodness Brown won't fall in
love with her."
Brown was calmly unconscious of this want of conjugal trust. Had he
known to what it bore reference, he might have been slightly
excited, for Mr. Augustus, though his hair was sandy and his nose a
decided snub, was an admirer of female beauty, and considered
himself highly irresistible. Mrs. Brown was totally unaware of this
fact.
"After years of life together" they were, on this point at least,
"strangers yet."
Sentimental young ladies, who croon over these pathetic words,
thinking perhaps, with an approach to soft melancholy, of the
desolation reserved for themselves in the future, when, their finest
feelings unappreciated, they must shut themselves up in mystery,
might learn a lesson from Mr. and Mrs. Augustus.
To be "strangers yet" on some points with that nearest and dearest,
the unappreciative husband of the future, may possibly be conducive
to harmony rather than desolation.
CHAPTER IV.
Margaret awoke early the next morning. It was a sad waking. For
the first moment she could have wished to shut her eyes again,
never to open them more in this world. Life looked so blank. And
what wonder?
However brave the spirit, it must be affected by its surroundings,
and to open one's eyes in a stifling room, with the consciousness
that the raised blind will show nothing but a dingy yard, and beyond
and on every side of it deserts of dingy yards, the yards shut in by
black-looking houses, in all of which the like stifling rooms may
reasonably be expected to be found, is, to say the least of it,
disheartening.
Margaret's troubles in the little cottage by the seaside, of which she
fondly thought as home, had not been less; but there was
something in the wide breadths of sea, in its fresh curling waves and
in the grand expanse of sky to soothe the dull aching of heart and
brain, to give scope to the great doctrine of possibilities, and
freedom to dreams that sometimes appeared wild and unreal.
Here it was different. In the narrowness of wall and enclosure life
itself was narrowed down till it seemed nothing but a dreary blank of
good; in the dull monotony of wood and brick what had been
melancholy became bitterness, what had been prayers for help and
guidance became one passionate outcry against Providence—one
bitter complaint against what the tortured heart too often calls cruel
fate.
Young curates are fond of preaching about resignation, notifying to
their aged friends the desirability of persevering to the end. I think if
ever they come to feel this, that Fate and all her myrmidons are
against them, that life is cruel beyond measure, that even faith itself
can find no standing-point, they will speak less on this strange, sad
theme; but when the victory has been won, when fate and necessity
have taken a true place for them in the economy of nature, what
they say will be worth far more.
The first discouragement gone by, Margaret felt that she must act,
and then came the consciousness that something very disagreeable
was before her. She had promised Mrs. Brown to set herself right
with her as far as character was concerned, and for this it would be
necessary to give references.
A new trouble, and, strange to say, unthought of before. Margaret
was little used to the ways of the world: she had hitherto cherished
a vague notion that to present herself would be sufficient for the
attainment of her object. That she was a lady she imagined (and in
this she was not mistaken) could be seen at a glance.
That a lady's character should be looked into like a servant's had not
entered into her mind as a necessary part of that to which those
who seek for employment must subject themselves. And yet her
common sense told her, as she thought it all over in the gray of early
morning, that this was perfectly right, and only what she ought to
have expected.
The necessity might certainly have been more delicately revealed
than by Mrs. Augustus Brown; but Margaret, in her morning review
of ways and means, thoroughly recognized the justice of the
demand. To answer it was none the less a great difficulty to one of
her nature. The long separation from all her friends, who before and
after her marriage had been very numerous; the solitary nature of
her life during the last four years; above all, that cloud, barely
acknowledged even to herself, which rested on her fair fame (she
could not tell if it had affected her in the opinion of her former
world, if many-tongued Rumor had magnified it),—all these things
made her task a very difficult one, and as she thought she felt
inclined to give up the struggle, to return to her lonely lot and do
her best for her child herself.
She had almost come to this conclusion, even the note refusing Mrs.
Brown's magnanimous offer was written in her mind, when suddenly
an idea flitted across her brain which caused her to hesitate. The
thought was of one who in all probability would stand her friend,
whose word was worth something, and who knew enough of the
circumstances of her history to render it unnecessary for her to
enter into painful details.
The friend was a lawyer, the man who managed her affairs. He was
well known to her, not so much personally as in a business capacity,
and she felt great confidence in his friendliness and judgment. Then
she knew that he held a high position, especially in the religious
world. Before she rose she had decided at least to consult Mr.
Robinson.
If he thought his reference would be sufficient guarantee of
respectability to ensure her an entrance into the carefully guarded
fold of Mrs. Augustus Brown, she would try to obtain the position; if
not, she would make no further effort.
CHAPTER V.
FOUND—A FRIEND.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
A CUNNING TEMPTER.
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