Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. Roof open —like a Noah’s Ark. It was astonishing how seldom it was that his instincts betrayed him. 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. My agent is here, and he has brought his contract for me to sign. But that, and that sort of thing, is just a day-dream.
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