The clerk at the Raffles Hotel had accorded her but scant interest. ‘He destroyed the papers?’ ‘That’s right,’ Roding said, throwing her a glance of frowning surprise, as if he had not rated her intelligence so high. Ruth crossed over to the dramatist of this tragicomedy and put a hand on his shoulder. He was a civil servant of some standing, and after a previous conversation upon aesthetics of a sententious, nebulous, and sympathetic character, he had sent her a small volume, which he described as the fruits of his leisure and which was as a matter of fact rather carefully finished verse. 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. And I have seen work by his pupils myself that struck me as being—well, next door to shameful. “You cowards!” said Ann Veronica, “put her down!” and tore herself from a detaining hand and battered with her fists upon the big red ear and blue shoulder of the policeman who held the little old lady. "I thought we were going to have some music," she said. ‘Come, I told you I wish to know everything about you. “All these days I have taken her for you.
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