CHAPTER VII The astonishing collapse of Spurlock created a tableau of short duration. "Not exactly," answered Jonathan, drily. You see to what it has brought you. She cut a deep gash into her own arm with a steel screw, loosing drops of her own blood onto the floorboards. The shape of the head, the height and breadth of the brow, the angle of the nose, the cut of the chin and jaws, all were fine, of a type she had never before looked upon closely. 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. Anna, my love, you cannot have forgotten so soon. All the initial confidence in herself was gone; her courage was merely a shell to hide the lack.
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