The Return. CHAPTER THE THIRD THE MORNING OF THE CRISIS Part 1 Two days after came the day of the Crisis, the day of the Fadden Dance. Constance Widgett’s abundant copper-red hair was bent down over some dimly remunerative work—stencilling in colors upon rough, white material—at a kitchen table she had dragged up-stairs for the purpose, while on her bed there was seated a slender lady of thirty or so in a dingy green dress, whom Constance had introduced with a wave of her hand as Miss Miniver. The fates are never so kind to me. It depresses one, you know. The necessity of defending herself and assuming a confident and secure tone did much to dispell the sense of being exposed and indefensible in a huge dingy world that abounded in sinister possibilities. Danger, the most terrible she had ever faced, was substantially in this room. "I cannot remain here long. She resolved to walk across the Park to the Zoological gardens, and so on by way of Primrose Hill to Hampstead Heath. “But your hair,” he gasped. They had refused. “Whither away?” he said, very distinctly in a curiously wheedling voice. A sob was strangled in her throat. Capes looked at one and not over one, spoke to one, treated one as a visible concrete fact. " "'Sblood!" exclaimed Wild, uneasily.
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