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. She was to fall back amongst the ruck, a young woman of talent, content perhaps to earn a scanty living by painting Christmas cards, or teaching at a kindergarten. “Whenever they try to take hold of life a man intervenes. "Where am I?" asked Spurlock. "Fear nothing, Sir," said the man, in a voice which Thames instantly recognised as that of Blueskin. Ann Veronica ignored her friend’s confusion. "What did the old fellow judge from, eh, Joan?" asked he. The Goopes were the oddest little couple conceivable, following a fruitarian career upon an upper floor in Theobald’s Road. ‘Will you—what was it?—“blow off his head”?’ Melusine eyed her, a little uncertain.
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