pale and her hands still convulsively trembling. She was worn out by
the stress of the evening, by the vehemence of her rebellious feelings.
When she again spoke to herself it was in a shamed, giggling way that
nobody but Emmy had heard from her since the days of childhood. She gave
a long sigh, looking through the blur at that clear glow from beneath
the iron door of the kitchen grate. Miserably she refused to think
again. She was half sick of thoughts that tore at her nerves and
lacerated her heart. To herself Jenny felt that it was no good--crying
was no good, thinking was no good, loving and sympathising and giving
kindness--all these things were in this mood as useless as one another.
There was nothing in life but the endless sacrifice of human spirit.

"Oh!" she groaned passionately. "If only something would happen. I don't
care _what!_ But something ... something new ... exciting. Something
with a bite in it!"

She stared at the kicking clock, which every now and again seemed to
have a spasm of distaste for its steady record of the fleeting seconds.
"Wound up to go all day!" she thought, comparing the clock with herself
in an angry impatience.

And then, as if it came in answer to her poignant wish for some untoward
happening, there was a quick double knock at the front door of the
Blanchard's dwelling, and a sharp whirring ring at the push-bell below
the knocker. The sounds seemed to go violently through and through the
little house in rapid waves of vibrant noise.