To him she had always appeared as a mere pleasure-loving parasite—something quite insignificant. ’ ‘What if she goes back to Charvill?’ demanded Roding. 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. . . On some insane score she fancied she had to state her case in verse. "A bad girl?" She put the question as she would have put any question—leveleyed and level-toned. ” She tried to think of some altered state of affairs in which these monstrous limitations would be alleviated, in which women would stand on their own feet in equal citizenship with men. , like to forget all about it—even their names.
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