"Fire! That was what drew me to you in the beginning. "I've done nothing to offend you," persisted Jack. He made a quick movement towards her, but she did not flinch. 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. She thought gleefully of the dress she would get to wear for the Ball (Prom?) and could not wait to tell her foster family about how excited she was. She had underestimated his animal ability to sense weakness. She felt herself getting into a corner. The coach in which the prisoner had been conveyed was already broken to pieces, and the driver was glad to escape with life.
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