Constance Widgett’s abundant copper-red hair was bent down over some dimly remunerative work—stencilling in colors upon rough, white material—at a kitchen table she had dragged up-stairs for the purpose, while on her bed there was seated a slender lady of thirty or so in a dingy green dress, whom Constance had introduced with a wave of her hand as Miss Miniver. Spurlock dove headlong at the other's legs, toppling the man. He met her eyes with his fiery black gaze. Her head felt absurdly like one of those noddling manikins in the Hong-Kong curio-shops. Racing, he reached it perhaps a moment or two later.
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