The worst was over now. 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. He held down the light, and a moment afterwards beckoned, with a blanched cheek, to Rowland. “You can keep him at arm’s length. It ceased to be the symbol of liberty and a remote and quite abstracted person, and became suddenly and very disagreeably the token of a large and portentous body visible and tangible. A shudder rippled across his shoulders. Someday I'll take you down there and have them rig up the coconut dance for you. No, never mind about thanking me. So it will be wise for Mrs. It is that you cannot refuse her sanctuary.
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