Her face had been oddly flushed of late, with a rather fixed and glassy
look about the eyes. Jenny thought of this, on her way to the concert;
alone, for by some ill fate, his nearer vision blurred in that golden
maze of the future, Ben had fixed his concert for a Friday.
This Friday! Always a bad day, bad in itself, bad for every one, like
an east wind; worst of all for a laundress: not so depressing as a
Monday, but so hurried, so overcrowded, with all the ironing and
folding, the packing of the lots, all small, into their separate
newspaper parcels; the accumulated fatigue of a whole week. Some demon
seemed to possess her clients that week: they had come in with a collar
here, a shirt there, an odd pillow-slip, tablecloth, right over
Thursday. She was working until after twelve o'clock that night--so was
Jenny--up before dawn next morning, though no one save herself knew of
this.
"Whatever they do, they shan't not keep me from my Ben's concert!" That
was what she said, with a vision of motors blocking the road in front
of the little hall.
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