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. Above the work-table was a drop-light—kerosene. In remote times and countries its evil tendencies had expressed themselves in the form of tyrannies, massacres, wars, and what not; but just at present in England they shaped as commercialism and competition, silk hats, suburban morals, the sweating system, and the subjection of women. They struck her as cold and indifferent. Nevertheless it was overwhelming. ’ Gerald frowned. ‘The fact of it is,’ I said, ‘I’m the new playwright, Thomas More. She posed herself before her mirror and surveyed herself with gravely thoughtful, gravely critical, and yet admiring eyes. She was not afraid exactly, but there was that about her loneliness to-night she distrusted. He did not love Ruth. He sat up in his chair as though the question had stung him. " "Quite the contrary," rejoined the woollen-draper, laughing good-humouredly. ‘You have made a serious mistake, Melusine.
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