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. Old Newgate 302 X. Jackson, mean time, produced a pocket-book; and, after deliberately sharpening the point of a pencil, began to write on a blank leaf. ‘Don’t try to turn it off,’ ordered Miss Froxfield. Rhea went down, screeching and clawing at the air for the sword, which clanked heavily on the ground. Because here was the haven for which she had been blindly groping: the positive abolition of all her father's rights in her—the right to drag her back.
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