If he had imagined Melusine would be hampered by her petticoats, he was disappointed. It’s true. ‘Tell me what you know of Miss Charvill?’ he ordered severely. 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. “You will always have to run from normal people and normal life, John.
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