One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself. E. ‘Monstrously unfair of you, Hilary. “Your name, I believe, is——” “Pellissier,” Anna answered. She slid the dress off, naked underneath. 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.
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