"And who else'd have bad feelings?"
Robin recalled, with alarm, what Dale had said at the House of
Laughter. Could Dale have done this thing--or helped? Or stood around
and watched it burn? Oh, no, no--not Dale.
Harkness, seeing her concern, dexterously broke a soft-boiled egg into a
silver egg-cup and said in a carefully casual voice, intended to put the
fire quite out of their minds: "Well, the constable'll find the man what
did it, so don't you worry your head, Missy."
Robin, her heart heavy with all she wanted to do and couldn't find a way
to do, swallowed a scream at his "Don't you worry your head." Why _did_
everyone say that to her--just because she was little on the outside? If
_she_ didn't worry her head--who was there to worry?
It was with a heavy spirit she dressed herself--girded herself, she
called it--for her call upon Mr. Norris at the Mills. The long hours of
Sunday, through which she had to wait, had filled her with misgiving.
Now she looked so absurdly small in the mirror, her tousled hair so
childish, no matter how much she tried to tuck it out of sight under the
little dark blue toque, why would anyone, especially a manager of a
Mill, listen to her?
Beryl, stirred to sympathy by Robin's daring to face the lion in his
den, told her for the hundredth time just how she had suffered before
that momentous visit to Martini, the orchestra leader, in New York.
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