Enid
hated going back to the dreadful time of her husband's death.
And then, when everything seemed going so pleasantly, and when Enid
Crofton was still feeling a glow of joy at the thought of the cheque for
L100, one of those things happened which seem sometimes to occur in life
as if to remind us poor mortals that Fate is ever crouching round the
corner, ready to spring. The door opened, and the buxom little maid
brought in two letters on the salver she had just been taught to use.
One of the envelopes was addressed in a clear, ordinary lady's hand; the
other, cheap and poor in quality, was in a firm, and yet unformed,
handwriting.
Enid glanced at the two elder ladies; they were talking together eagerly.
She walked over to the bow-shaped window, and opened the commoner
envelope:
Dear Madam,
I hope you will excuse me writing to tell you that my husband has had
to leave Mr. Winter's situation. Piper considers he has been treated
shameful, and that if he chose he could get the law on Mr. Winter. I am
writing to you unknown to Piper. If you could see me I think I could
explain exactly what it is I want Piper to get. There do seem a
difficulty now in getting jobs of Piper's sort, but from what he has
told me there were one or two other jobs you heard of that might have
suited him.
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