McClintock was amused. 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. Sheppard. Vorsack would just have to live with it. ‘Always he is busy about my affairs. And then she came out into the street, sure only of one thing—that she could not return directly to her lodgings. The late afternoon, en effet.
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