The connection was immovable. Even in her suffering Mrs. Condon
implored M. Joseph to save her hair. Nothing, however, could be
done; he admitted it with pale lips. The thing might be chiseled
off; in the end he tried to force a release and the strand, with a
renewal of Mrs. Condon's agony--now, in the interest of her
appearance, heroically withstood--snapped short in the container.

Rapidly recovering her vigor, she launched on a tirade against M.
Joseph and his permanent waving establishment--Linda had never
before heard her mother talk in such a loud brutal manner, nor use
such heated unpleasant words, and the girl was flooded with a
wretched shame. Still another lock, it was revealed, had been
ruined, and crumbled to mere dust in its owner's fingers.

"The law will provide for you," she promised.

"Your hair was dyed," the proprietor returned vindictively. "The
girl who washed it will testify. Every one is warned against the
permanent if their hair has been colored. So it was at your own
risk."

"My head's never been touched with dye," Mrs. Condon shrilly
answered. "You lying little ape. And well does that young woman know
it. She complimented me herself on a true blonde." The girl had,
too, right before Linda.

"You ought to be thrashed out of the city."

"Your money will be given back to you," M. Joseph told her.