So I made haste and recovered. Drink the toast, Jack. I’m sick of this town and I can’t wait to get out. 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. Spurlock had found the typewriter, oiled and cleaned it, and began to practise on it in the night. Anyhow, ten minutes after I get to work I'll be rumpling it.
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