That is to say, they were dancing round in a ring, holding hands.

On a grassy bank several women, dressed in blue and white robes and tunics of beast-skins sat watching the playing children.
The children from Fitzroy Street stood on the fringe of the forest looking at the games.

One woman with long, fair braided hair sat a little apart from the others, and there was a look in her eyes as she followed the play of the children that made Anthea feel sad and sorry.
'None of those little girls is her own little girl,' thought Anthea.
The little black-clad London child pulled at Anthea's sleeve.
'Look,' she said, 'that one there--she's precious like mother; mother's 'air was somethink lovely, when she 'ad time to comb it out.

Mother wouldn't never a-beat me if she'd lived 'ere--I don't suppose there's e'er a public nearer than Epping, do you, Miss ?' In her eagerness the child had stepped out of the shelter of the forest.
The sad-eyed woman saw her.

She stood up, her thin face lighted up with a radiance like sunrise, her long, lean arms stretched towards the London child.
'Imogen!' she cried--at least the word was more like that than any other word--'Imogen!' There was a moment of great silence; the naked children paused in their play, the women on the bank stared anxiously.
'Oh, it IS mother--it IS!' cried Imogen-from-London, and rushed across the cleared space.