The knight mechanically complied with his request. "I'll tote the odiousness outside. He carried her into his bedroom as she unfastened the tiny white buttons of his shirt. 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. Sheppard, and neither deserve nor desire your thanks. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered. The idea of Ruth as a talisman against misfortune—which he now recognized as a sick man's idea— faded as his appreciation of the absurd reasserted itself.
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