“You should probably wash all of that stuff off of yourself. You have neither reason nor logic. 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. Listening on the dimlit landing, he saw Roding’s face muscles tighten. Yet you catch her eye—you can’t seem to escape from it.
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