The oblique ruddy lighting distorted them oddly, made queer bars and patches of shadow upon their clothes. “Not a bit. His face fell. 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. A black-garbed young lad leapt out and let down the steps. Most unsatisfactory. Yet there was nothing for her to do. . She opened her suitcase—new and smelling strongly of leather—and took out of it a book, dogeared and precariously held together, bound in faded blue cloth and bearing the inscription: The Universal Handbook.
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