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mornings later, when Constance woke, she remembered that it was Saturday; and, with the apprehension which had kept her nerves on the rack all the week long, she said to herself, as she rose:

“This is the day. . . this is the day. . . .”

She went to the letter-box again and again, almost hoping to find the last issue of the scurrilous paper there. She was afraid also lest Addie, before going to school or on coming home, should see it in the box and look at it, to see what it was. She knew that Van der Welcke was thinking of it too and that this was why he did not go out and also kept coming down the stairs, as though accidentally, and passing through the hall, with a glance at the glass pane of the letter-box. She went and sat in the drawing-room, looking out for the postman or for an errand-boy who might strike her as suspicious. . . . The morning passed, Addie came home and her nervous apprehension never left her. The afternoon passed and she remained indoors, wandering through the hall and always, always gazing at that letter-box. Nothing appeared through the little glass pane. And the whole day was one long apprehension, one incessant oppression.

The next morning, Sunday, Constance again looked out of the window, but she had now made up her mind that nothing would come and that there was