It was an oldfashioned peasant blouse, white, square necked, and trimmed with lace. She had had to do away with many a leering foster father since she had started frequenting foster homes in the middle of the century. The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire. “Didn’t you just get over an ear infection not two weeks ago? You’re asking for another one. The Return 231 II. At this time of universal havoc and despair,—when all London quaked at the voice of the storm,—the carpenter, who was exposed to its utmost fury, fared better than might have been anticipated.
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