Probably the latter, for the thronging ballroom was insufferably hot. “If I had three hands,” she said, with a faint smile, “I would give one to each of you. You may have something to conceal, you may not. Lucy had baked the apple and pumpkin pies, carefully molding the flour crusts and adding extra teaspoonfuls of allspice and cinnamon while no one looked. I have a hundred of them—mixed blood—on my island, and they are always rooking me. Her lips came together with an expression between contentment and the faintest shadow of a smile, her manner was one of quiet reserve, and behind this mask she was wildly discontented and eager for freedom and life. Between Canton and Hartford two giants had risen, invisible but menacing— Fear and Doubt.
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